THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


SUMNER  LINCOLN  FAIRFIELD. 

N 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PRINTED  BY  GIHON,  FAIRCHILD  &  CO. 

Corner  of  Seventh  and  Market  streets. 

1842. 


CONTENTS 


Introduction,  Page 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain, 

Household  Hours,          -  36 

The  Summer  Evening  Hymn,  38 

The  Last  Night  of  Pompeii,  41 

Westminster  Abbey,  -  167 

Pere  La  Chaise,  173 

An  Evening  Song  of  Piedmont,  •  -  176 

The  Courtezan,  .  •'""•'.  178 

The  Lo/el,  181 

Lines  Composed  while  Ascending  the  Mississippi,        -  184 

The  Hour  of  Death,  -  186 

To  My  Son  in  Heaven,  -  -  188 

Sonnet,  *.  •  191 

To  My  Daughter  Genevieve,  192 

Songs  to  Clara,  196 

Sonnet,  "-  -  218 

Grave  Watching,  219 

The  Confessional,  221 

Fancy's  Faith,  -  224 

The  Sunset  Voice,         -  227 

The  Sachem's  Chant,  230 

The  Treasure  of  the  Forest,  -  232 

The  Suliote  Polemarque,        -  235 

Song,  -  239 

Remembered  Wrongs,  240 

Memento  Mori,  -  242 


M188267 


iv  CONTENTS. 

The  Auspices,       -  244 

The  Poet's  Night  Solitude,  246 

Sonnet,                   -  249 

The  Autumnal  Eve,      -  2SO 

Sonnet,                   .                 .  254 

The  Trial  of  the  Troth,                 -  255 

Music  Amalgamated,  266 

Thanksgiving,  268 

Ancient  Worship,  270 

Sonnet,         -  272 

The  Lay  of  the  Lost,  273 

Night  Dreams,               -                 -  276 

Abaddon,  the  Spirit  of  Destruction,         -  279 

To  Isolina,  315 

Lines,  317 

The  Lay  of  the  Colonist,  318 

The  Dirge,                             -  321 

A  Monody,  324 

Glendaloch,  326 

Sonnet,         -  328 

Phantasie,  329 

The  Reign  of  Genius,                                                      .                .  333 

The  Lay  of  the  Fatherless,    -  336 

Sunset  at  Sea,  339 

The  Last  Song,      -  343 

The  Idealist,  344 

The  Dream  of  the  Sepulchre,  348 

Olympiads,  362 

The  Desert  Horseman,                            .                                   .  367 

Visions  of  Romance,                                         ...  370 

Hope,  374 

The  Father's  Legacy,  375 

Religion  Unrevealed,                                                  -                                  -  373 

The  Chief  of  Hazor,       -                                  .                                  .-  331 

The  Spell  of  the  Gloamin,                                        .                                 .  388 

To  the  Owl,  392 

The  Wane  of  the  Year,  394 

Faileas  More,                 -                                                  .*  390 


INTRODUCTION. 


IN  accordance  with  the  judicious  counsel  of  a  venerated  friend,  the 
author  of  these  writings  has  deferred  the  publication  of  the  contemplated 
biography,  though  he  is  not  unacquainted  with  the  desire  of  many  to 
peruse  it.  Perhaps,  the  reason  assigned  is  a  cogent  argument — namely, 
no  biography  of  a  wellknown  writer  should  be  published  during  his 
temporal  being ;  lest,  as  it  ivoidd  result  now  in  a  perpetuation  of  calum 
nies,  it  might  induce,  among  inveterate  foes,  a  vindictive  controversy 
little  calculated  to  aid  the  author  during  the  paroxysms  of  epileptic 
disease,  or  gratify  the  public  by  a  recapitulation  of  the  injuries,  and 
wrongs,  and  violenc3s  to  which  (not  destiny,  but)  the  evil  passions 
of  men  have  subjected  him.  A  minute  and  elaborate  narrative  of  all 
which  has  been  endured  might  become  painful,  if  not  tiresome  ;  and, 
after  all  that  has  been  suffered,  the  writer  is  as  willing  to  leave  his 
productions  to  the  honest  and  sincere  judgment  of  men,  as  he  hopes  to 
be  ready  to  surrender  his  spirit  to  the  immaculate  and  irreversible 
decree  of  JEHOVAH.  He  has  not  laboured  altogether  in  vain,  for,  by 
the  untiring  aid  of  loved  ones  around  him,  he  has  sustained  dependent 
children  who,  else,  might  be  outcasts  and  the  victims  of  his  enemies. 
That  the  life  of  a  poet— unprepared  to  encounter  the  rude  hostilities  of 
common  flesh,  and  unfitted  to  contend  (in  their  own  vulgar  fashion) 
with  the  God-forsaken  miscreants  of  an  hour — is  one  of  trial  and  trou 
ble  and  care  and  agony,  no  one  familiar  with  the  history  of  Genius  for 
a  thousand  years,  needs  now  to  be  informed.  His  sensibility  is  a  curse; 
his  eccentric  thoughts  wander  far  from  those  of  the  world's  dwellers  ; 
and  when  the  elysian  dream  of  imagination  has  passed,  his  mind  sinks 
into  gloom  and  despair. 

It  has,  therefore,  been  resolved  to  present,  in  the  first  volume  of 
these  writings,  merely  a  brief  outline  of  the  Author's  life,  which  has 
been  permitted  by  a  JUST  JUDGE  to  outlast  much  malevolence,  and  yet 
to  contend  with  more.  The  interested  and  virulent  assailants  of  all 
who  bear  my  name  have  had  occasion  enough  to  attack  me,  for  their 
wilful  mendacities  and  mangling  butcheries  of  character  have  been  too 
well  known  and  appreciated  to  demand  from  me  a  moment's  thought. 
All  that  the  herd  desire  is  humiliation  to  their  degree.  Of  this  th« 
author  is  not  capable  :  the  consort  of  fiends  would  be  preferred ;  the 
tortures  of  Hades  maintain  some  dignity ;  with  them  all  is  the  gross- 


vi  INTRODUCTION. 

ness  of  swine  butchers — drunk  with  rum  and  blood.  They  are  welcome, 
however,  to  their  cannibal  feast  if  they  can  gnaw  flesh  enough  from 
their  anticipated  victim  to  glut  their  worse  than  satanic  appetites. 

It  has,  also,  been  determined  to  withhold,  for  the  present,  the  portrait 
which  was  promised.  The  subsequent  poems  are  gloomy  enough,  it  is 
feared,  without  increasing  their  effect  by  presenting  the  despondent 
image  of  their  author ;  but  the  chief  reason  for  this  omission  is  the  ex 
pense  attendant  on  engraving,  which  the  heavy  cost  of  these  writings 
will  not  justify  an  unfortunate  and  unfriended  individual  in  assuming. 
Perhaps,  if  better  days  occur  before  the  publication  of  the  second 
volume,  the  engraving  may  appear  in  that ;  but  the  work  now  sent  forth 
has  been  already  too  long  delayed  by  inevitable  misfortunes,  to  permit 
any  farther  procrastination,  and  the  very  bread  of  unhappy  children 
depends  upon  its  immediate  appearance.  No  emotion  of  vanity  has 
been  repressed — no  ambition  of  notoriety  has  been  sacrificed  by  the 
suppression  of  the  biography  and  portrait ;  for  the  author  has  seen  too 
much  heart-breaking  misfortune  and  sorrow,  and  suffered  too  much 
misery,  both  in  his  own  bosom  and  through  those  defenceless  innocents 
whom  Heaven  has  bestowed  upon  him,  to  entertain  any  solicitude 
about  such  trifles.  The  only  thing  to  be  regretted  will  be  the  disap 
pointment  of  any  patron  ;  but  the  reasons  given  are  sufficient,  it  is  hoped, 
to  justify  the  writer  in  the  course  he  has  adopted. 

In  the  autumn  of  1802,  Dr.  Abner  Fail-field  was  married  to  Miss 
Lucy  Lincoln,  both  of  Massachusetts,  and  on  the  25th  of  June,  1803, 
their  only  son  was  born  in  Warwick,  a  mountain  town  not  far  from  the 
frontiers  of  the  State.  The  first  three  years  of  his  changeful  and  trou 
bled  life  were  characterized  by  all  the  exuberant  gladness  of  an  innocent 
and  enthusiastic  spirit;  but  in  October,  1806,  the  midnight  of  destiny 
fell  upon  his  pathway,  for  his  skilled  and  ardent  and  faithful  father 
perished,  in  his  thirty-second  year,  a  victim  to  his  most  responsible 
and  laborious  profession,  during  the  ravages  of  a  pestilential  epidemic. 
The  widow  with  her  two  children  (for  a  lovely  daughter  had  been  add 
ed  to  the  family)  found  refuge  in  the  house  of  her  father,  Gen.  Lincoln 
of  Worcester  County,  whose  large  landed  possessions  and  great  energy 
of  character  conferred  upon  him,  during  a  long  life,  a  respectability  and 
influence  some  might  envy  but  no  one  could  condemn.  Among  the 
romantic  hills  and  valleys  of  the  Fatherland  of  Freedom  passed  the 
earlier  years  of  the  writer.  Few  opportunities  for  mental  cultivation 
were  afforded,  for  all  on  the  General's  estate  were  acquainted  with 
labour;  but  his  mansion  was  a  refuge  in  widowhood  and  orphanage, 
and  the  tears,  that  were  due  to  the  grave  of  the  martyred  husband  and 
father,  were  not  left  to  fall  unheeded  by  a  cold  and  callous  world. 


INTRODUCTION.  Vll 

But  a  new  affliction  was  impending.  Marietta,  the  beautiful  sister 
just  mentioned,  was  seized  on  the  first  of  September,  1810,  by  a  fatal 
malady,  which,  within  a  few  days,  closed  her  unoffending  career,  and 
wafted  her  spotless  spirit  far  beyond  the  taint  and  trouble  of  the  earth. 
There  were  murmurs  heard  as  her  sweet  body  descended  into  Earth, 
for  the  child  was  a  radiant  being  of  loveliness  and  love  ;  but  amidst  all 
the  desolation  of  bereavement,  those  most  nearly  allied  could  not, 
when  the  first  agony  had  subsided,  question  the  wisdom  of  the  unerring 
FATHER  OF  THE  UNIVERSE.  Had  her  years  been  extended  to  woman 
hood,  she  might  have  suffered  like  her  brother ;  with  him  she  would 
have  borne  all  that  the  fiends  of  earth  could  inflict,  and  the  soft  pulse  of 
joy  might  have  become  the  agonizing  throb  of  sympathetic  anguish. 

Four  years  after  this  melancholy  bereavement — none  but  the  Creator 
knows  how  gloomily  the  time  wore  on — the  mother  of  the  author  re 
moved  him  from  the  temporary  guardianship  of  his  grandfather,  resolved, 
though  unprovided  with  the  common  necessaries  of  life,  to  fulfil  the 
expiring  wish  of  her  husband,  and  confer  upon  him  a  collegiate  educa 
tion.  The  ambitious  orphan  boy  was,  then,  about  twelve  years  of  age, 
and  knew  nothing  beyond  his  rudiments  ;  yet,  in  less  than  a  year, 
through  most  arduous  study,  he  was  fitted  for  and  entered  college  in 
advance  of  his  class. 

Severe  illness,  which  almost  terminated  life,  was  the  necessary  con 
sequence  of  this ;  but  the  widow's  toil  was  not  unseen,  and 
every  hour  which  could  be  snatched  from  repose,  was  devoted  to  studies 
that  might,  it  was  earnestly  hoped,  bring  forth  a  recompense  and 
reward  for  all  maternal  love  so  religiously  conferred.  That  evil  desti 
ny  has  denied,  until  even  now,  the  accomplishment  of  this  fervent  as 
piration  ;  that  expectations  the  most  rational  have  not  been  fulfilled ; 
that  perpetual  struggles  have  eventuated  in  merely  temporary  triumphs; 
and  that  all  the  acquirements  of  many  solitary  thinking  years  have  fail 
ed  to  fulfil  the  yearning  desires  of  a  heart  alive  to  all  the  sensibilities 
of  our  nature,  justice  will  refer  to  circumstances  beyond  human  con 
trol — not  to  perversity  of  disposition  or  error  of  action.  The  same  se 
vere  system  of  study  was  pursued  in  the  University  during  the  two 
years  which  the  health  of  his  mother  permitted  the  author  to  con 
tinue  there  ;  and  not  an  hour  of  vacation  was  left  unimproved,  for  at  the 
age  of  sixteen  the  writer  began  to  aid  his  only  parent  by  teaching  school 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  college.  All  exertion,  however,  was  in 
vain,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  erudite  pursuits,  the  poor  fatherless  boy 
was  compelled  to  resign  his  eager  hopes  and  dazzling  dreams  and  de 
part  to  mingle  and  struggle  with  the  chilling  and  remorseless  world. 

The  two  subsequent  years   were  spent  in  Georgia  and  Carolina, 
as  principal  of  academies  ;  and  in  the  solitude  of  country  life  the  fir*i 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

poetic  imaginings  awoke  within  the  uncommiming  heart.  Better  far 
for  rest  and  peace  and  prosperity,  that  they  had  slumbered  on  forever ; 
but  the  birthday  doom  was  to  be  fulfilled,  and  human  power  could  not 
avert  the  catastrophe  of  the  mania.  Two  pamphlets  of  rhymes  were 
published  during  the  eighteenth  year  of  the  author,  which  he  would 
shrink  from  reading  now,  but  which — their  only  merit — contributed, 
through  the  kindness  of  friends,  in  augmenting  limited  means,  and 
thereby  adding  to  the  comforts  of  a  mother's  suffering  under  painful 
and  protracted  illness.  No  hope  remaining  of  her  restoration,  it  was 
determined  to  return  to  the  North ;  but,  after  the  lapse  of  months,  find 
ing  no  benefit  from  removal,  the  writer  resolved,  by  the  advice  of  friends, 
to  test  the  result  of  a  transatlantic  voyage,  and  visit  Europe  for  a  time. 
This  was  happily  accomplished ;  the  hues  of  health  stole  slowly  over 
beloved  features  long  wan  and  emaciated,  and  from  that  time  forth,  Fate 
sealed  the  doom  of  the  Poet.  All  but  intense  feeling  and  high  thought 
was  cast  aside ;  though  marts  of  business  were  filled  with  jostling 
shadows ,  all  ordinary  pursuits  seemed  vain  and  worthless  ;  and  for  the 
evanescent  rainbow  glimpses  of  imagination,  all  the  paths  that  lead  to 
opulence  and  power  were  forever  abandoned. 

Whether,  under  these  circumstances,  it  was  folly  or  madness  that 
instigated  the  wanderer,  on  his  return  from  France  in  the  summer  of 
1826,  to  forge  the  manacles  of  matrimony,  it  is  difficult  to  decide ;  but 
the  wedlock  ceremony,  second  only  in  solemnity  to  the  burial  service, 
to  which  it  is  often  a  preliminary,  was  most  canonically  performed  in 
September,  by  the  Bishop  of  New  Jersey ;  and  six  poor  innocents, 
since  then,  have  encircled  the  poor  man's  hearthstone. 

Even  if  space  permitted,  a  history  of  the  persecutions,  the  wrongs 
and  miseries,  which  have  been  inflicted  on  the  author,  would  be  far  from 
agreeably  interesting  to  the  reader ;  and  a  thorough  exposition  of  events, 
involving  both  public  and  domestic  individuals,  would  certainly  be  most 
painful  to  the  exponent.  Nothing,  therefore,  is  left  to  be  added  now 
save  this — that  amid  all  his  wanderings  and  trials,  his  anxious  days  and 
restless  nights,  his  solitude  of  heart  and  agony  of  spirit,  the  composition 
of  these  and  many  other  poems  has  been  almost  the  only  comfort  of 
the  author.  This  has  been  a  pleasure  in  loneliness,  desertion  and 
want, — which  no  malevolence  could  impair,  and  of  which  no 
blasphemer  could  deprive  him  ;  and  now  he  casts  his  bread  upon  the 
waters,  not  with  the  eager  arm  of  confiding  and  expectant  youth,  but 
with  the  melancholy  deliberation  of  one  who  looks  for  no  reward  du 
ring  his  terrestrial  existence  save  the  retrospection  of  pleasures  long  de 
parted  and  the  consciousness  of  having  fulfilled,  so  far  as  merciless  mis 
fortune  would  permit,  the  duties  involved  in  his  position  and  character 
as  a  man  and  a  writer. 
June  1,  1841. 


THE 


CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

This  Poem  is  founded  on  the  terrible  incidents  recorded  in  the  nineteenth  chapter 
of  Genesis.  All  readers  of  biblical  history  are  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  ineffa 
ble  crimes — the  luxury  and  abandonment — the  impiety  and  shamelessness — and  the 
merciless  fate  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Cities  of  the  Plain.  Whether  their  utter  de 
struction  was  the  result  of  natural  causes  or  the  immediate  infliction  of  an  offended 
Deity,  it  is  unnecessary  to  inquire,  as  this  is  a  matter  of  no  importance  to  the  Poet. 
It  avails  not  to  controvert  or  confirm  the  assertion  that  no  bird  can  fly  over  the  Dead 
Sea  ;  that  no  fish  can  live  or  human  being  drown  in  its  bitter  waters ;  for  all  the  pur 
poses  of  poetry,  it  is  enough  to  know  that  Desolation  has  spread  its  wings  over  the 
countless  dead  and  that  no  voice,  during  thousands  of  years,  has  startled  the  ravining 
wild  beast  from  his  idle  search  of  prey. 


THE    CITIES    OF   THE   PLAIN. 

O'ER  the  blue  verge  of  summer's  glorious  vault, 

In  godlike  beauty,  rolled  the  tropic  sun, 

Wrapt  in  his  gorgeous  splendors,  like  the  hope, 

The  last  wild  hope  that  leaves  us  desolate, 

Most  radiant  at  the  hour  when  dusky  night 

Waves  her  dim  pinions,  and,  with  clouded  smiles, 

Looks  o'er  the  darkening  earth  and  deep  blue  heaven ; 

And,  'neath  the  shadow  of  an  ancient  palm, 

Towering  in  majesty,  its  ample  boughs, 

Green  in  the  dew,  far  branching  round  his  tent, 

On  Mamre's  plain,  in  Hebron's  pleasant  Land, 

The  Father  of  the  Faithful  sat  alone. 

Flowers  of  all  hues  blushed  beauty  while  they  breath'd 

Their  odours  o'er  the  scene  of  peace  and  love ; 

The  rose,  the  enamour'd  heart's  fair  history, 

The  bulbul's  worship  since  the  Lesbian  maid 

Transfused  her  burning  soul  into  its  folds; 

The  violet,  tender  as  a  maiden's  fame, 

Whose  bloom  grows  deeper  at  the  kiss  of  air  ; 

The  rich  geranium,  whose  colors  burn 

Amid  the  incense  of  its  threaded  leaves  ; 

The  purple  lotus  floating  on  the  stream, 

That  seems  to  catch  its  radiance  as  it  flows, 

E'en  as  the  prophet  breathes  the  breath  of  heaven  ; 

And  each  delicious  thing  that  buds  and  blooms 

In  the  fair  Orient — the  realm  of  light. 

Beneath  the  palmy  shades,  their  noontide  bowers, 

The  flocks  and  herds  leapt  up  and  snuff'd  the  air, 

And  feasted  on  the  verdure  wet  with  dew, 

Drinking  the  freshness  of  the  evening  breeze; 

And  plants,  and  flowering  shrubs,  and  crispy  grass 

Lifted  their  drooping  fibres  arid  shrunk  leaves 


12  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

In  silent  worship  unto  heaven ;  and  birds, 

The  happiest  minstrels  of  eternal  love, 

Sung  vesper  hymns,  while  the  tall  cedars  threw 

Their  solemn  shadows  o'er  the  boundless  fields, 

And  eve's  soft-tinted  clouds  hung  in  the  sky 

In  that  fantastic  form  and  wild  array 

Lovers  adore  and  poets  paint;  and  airs, 

Born  in  the  fairy  realms  of  ether,  swayed 

Their  filmy  folds,  and  pictur'd  magic  domes, 

Fair  temples  pinnacled,  and  palaces, 

Sweet  groves  and  gardens,  and  the  seashore  cliffs, 

Which  changed,  each  moment,  like  a  summer  dream, 

Raised  by  the  spell  of  necromantic  power. 

At  his  tent-door,  amid  the  shadowy  scene, 
Reposed  the  Father  of  the  Faithful  now; 
And  there  he  led  the  quiet  life  of  love, 
Whose  annals  are  good  deeds  and  hallowed  thoughts, 
And  purified  affections — love  to  man, 
And  gratitude  to  God  ;  thence  he  upraised 
Heartfelt  orisons,  every  morn  and  eve, 
To  Him,  the  Supreme  Good,  whose  works  and  ways, 
Howe'er  mysterious,  are  forever  just  ; 
Rendering  continual  homage,  that  His  laws, 
In  peril's  hour,  when  many  evils  came 
From  men  and  things,  had  shielded  hirn  and  kept 
The  light  of  beauty  burning  in  his  heart; 
Had  been  to  him  a  glory  and  a  crown, 
Earth  never  could  confer  or  rend  away. 

Thus,  as  he  worshipped  in  the  sanctitude 
Of  a  forgiving  heart,  Three  Forms,  like  men, 
Save  that  their  seraph  brows  wore  majesty 
That  shamed  the  common  sons  of  earth,  appeared, 
Unsummoned  guests — unheralded  by  ought 
Familiar  with  earth's  usage  ;  for  no  sound 
Of  footstep  rustled  in  the  grove — no  shade 
Glimmered  amid  the  twilight  to  reveal 
Approaching  visitants;  and  these,  that  now 
Came,  strong  avengers,  to  Gomorrah's  bowers 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  13 

And  Admalrs  halls,  in  outward  semblance  seem'd 

But  wayworn  palmers,  destined  to  the  shrine 

Of  sanctity;  yet  sacred  was  the  name 

Of  stranger  in  the  East,  and  household  bread 

Sealed  the  true  bond  of  heartfelt  brotherhood. 

So  the  great  Father  of  the  Faithful  rose 

To  do  them  reverence  as  his  pilgrim  guests, 

And  to  their  seeming  and  intent  purveyed 

His  hospitalities  ;  then  on  their  way 

Held  consort  for  a  time,  and  treasured  well 

Angelic  counsel  humanly  bestowed. 

While  thus  they  communed  on  their  path,  amid 
The  shadows  of  the  oriental  night ; 
Quick  as  the  barque  leaps  o'er  the  cataract, 
Or  gossamer  is  borne  on  tempest  winds, 
E'en  in  a  moment's  unperceived  elapse, 
The  Glory  of  the  Triad  turned  his  eye 
Full  on  the  gleaming  Cities  of  the  Plain, 
And  his  broad  brow  glowed  like  a  fiery  cloud, 
As,  trumpet-like,  his  awful  voice  arose, 
Denouncing  judgement — "  They  must  perish  !"  Far, 
Through  lower  and  mid  and  upper  air,  and  thence 
Through  all  the  starry  spheres,  and  upward  still 
From  heaven  to  heaven  arose  the  dread  decree — 
All  angels,  from  the  cherub  full  of  love 
And  gentleness,  to  the  archangel  throned 
On  thunders,  crying  in  the  voice  of  death, 
Awfully  echoed — "  They  must  perish." — Then 
The  rush  of  mighty  winds  went  by  ;  wild  sounds 
Mysterious  murmured  in  the  startled  sky; 
The  quick  earth  quivered,  and  the  hillgirt  sea, 
Through  its  dark  mass  of  troubled  waters,  heaved, 
Moaning  to  its  unfathomable  abyss; 
And  every  sable  forest  and  bare  cliff 
Gave  forth  strange  accents — and  the  world  was  full 
Of  fearful  omens.     Silent  mid  the  Three 
The  awestruck  Father  stood,  while  through  the  skies 
Flew  the  dread  mandate,  and  the  Earth,  aghast 


14  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

With  terror,  to  its  deep  foundation  shrunk. 

Silent  he  stood;  how  awful  was  the  pause  ! 

Thrice  o'er  the  fated  cities,  dark  as  night, 

A  giant  vision  passed ;  thrice  o'er  them  flashed 

A  fiery  sword  and  sceptre  broke  in  twain ; 

Thrice  rung  a  warning  cry,  that  rose  unheard, 

Though  conscious  Earth  did  quake  :  then  all  was  still — 

Still  as  ihe  realms  of  Hela,  still  as  fear, 

Whose  pulse  doth  sound  like  midnight's  deep-voiced  knell. 

Wildered  and  crushed  by  terror  and  despair, 

The  Shepherd  Prince  on  Eanh's  cold  bosom  fell, 

And  a  wild  vision  of  the  woes  to  come, 

In  broken  tumult,  searched  his  burning  brain. 

But  Faith  has  godlike  power,  and  holy  men 
May  intercede,  when  terrors  are  abroad, 
With  God  as  with  their  high  and  holy  friend, 
E'en  when  his  messengers  are  bolts  of  flame, 
And  thunders  wake  the  astonished  universe 
To  utterance  of  His  awful  destinies. 
Strength  to  contend  and  fortitude  to  bear 
Attend  the  heroic  spirits  of  the  Good; 
Alike  in  desert  land  and  meadows  green, 
Tissued  with  dimpling  rills,  that  purl  in  smiles  ; 
Alike  in  pleasure  and  adversity, 
The  strong  persuasion  of  avoided  ill 
And  shunn'd  allurement  fills  the  heart  with  joy, 
And  the  unsinning  for  the  guilty  pray 
Though  destined  wrath  hath  ratified  their  doom. 
Upheld  by  faith  that  falters  not  in  woe, 
The  intercessor  rose  and  cried  aloud 
For  mercy  on  the  guilty  race  : — "  Slay   not 
"  The  scorner  in  his  scoffing!  shall  the  voice 
"  Of  blasphemy  be  heard  e'en  in  the  grave  ? 
•*  Oh  !  must  they  die  in  utmost  guilt — debarr'd 
"  Forever  from  thy  light  and  beauty,  Lord  ? 
"  Beyond  atonement  and  the  reach  of  hope  ?" 
"  Counsel,  entreatment,  menace  they  have  heard 
"In  vain ;  their  doom  is  fixed  and  cannot  change." 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  15 

To  the  blue  heavens,  o'ercanopied  with  stars, 
Serene  in  glory — oracles  of  years  ! 
In  anguish,  then,  he  lifted  up  his  soul, 
And  yet  once  more  besought.     "  Wilt  thou  destroy 
"  The  sinner  and  the  saint  together,  Lord  ? 
"The  son  of  Belial  and  thy  covenant's  heir?" 
"  The  Righteous  are  redeemed,"  a  Voice  replied. 
Again  and  yet  again  the  holy  man 
Implored  forbearance,  still,  with  faltering  voice, 
Pleading  in  awe  with  the  Supreme  of  Heaven, 
To  stay  the  hour  of  vengeance — but  in  vain  ! 
For  not  among  the  nations,  on  whose  pride 
The  signet  of  destruction  had  been  set, 
Was  left  the  least  redemption  from  the  wrath 
Omnipotent — most  awful  when  deferred! 
So  o'er  the  plain  of  Mamre,  'neath  the  glow 
Of  the  starr'd  firmament,  slowly  in  grief, 
Lone  as  the  breaking  billow  of  the  main, 
The  Patriarch  trod  his  melancholy  way; 
Yet  oft  turned  back  to  weep  and  gaze  once  more 
On  the  doomed  cities,  where  destruction  called 
Dark  desolation  to  attend  his  path, 
And  Ruin  flapped  the  air  with  bloodred  wings. 

On  Zion's  hill  (the  name  of  other  days) 
The  Father  of  the  Faithful  sought  repose, 
And  grief  fell  on  his  heart,  and  dreariness 
Came  o'er  his  spirit  as  he  watched  the  storm 
That  gathered  round  the  Cities  of  the  Plain. 

In  starlight  beauty  lay  the  pleasant  plains 
Of  Jordan;  and  on  every  hillock  green 
Slept  the  white  flocks,  dotting  the  uplands  green, 
And  imaged  household  bliss ;  the  slumbering  herds 
Were  gathered  round  the  wells,  awaiting  morn 
Never  to  dawn  on  them  ;  the  shepherd's  crook 
Leaned  idly  by  the  palm,  while,  mid  his  fold, 
He  watched  and  read  the  stars,  and  skilPd  in  lore 
By  solitary  commune,  gave  them  names 
Unfolding  nature  ;  all  their  potencies 


16  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

O'er  birth-hours  and  successive  times  he  knew; 

How  in  their  march  they  bore  our  fate  aiong, 

And  mingled  good  and  evil  lot  below 

With  their  eccentric  motions  ;  how  our  life 

Revolves  from  pleasure  to  calamity 

In  ceaseless  alternations,  as  the  stars 

Describe  their  evolutions  in  the  skies. 

Thus  to  the  old  Chaldee  heaven's  watchers  were 

High  Deities,  and  worship,  morn  and  eve, 

When  they  came  forth  in  the  blue  deep  of  heaven, 

And  when  they  faded  in  the  dayspring's  gush, 

Was  rendered  unto  them  ;  and  so  he  grew 

Resigned  to  their  mysterious  destinies, 

And  they  became  his  gods,  revealing  powers, 

Benignant  or  malign.     Or,  by  the  side 

Of  fellow  herdsman  lying,  he  became 

The  historian  of  the  elder  days,  when  Earth 

Was  full  of  love,  and  all  its  motions  were 

Sweet  poetry  ;  and  then  he  told  the  tales 

Of  reverend  eld,  how  sun-winged  angels  carne 

In  the  world's  youth,  and  held  converse  with  men, 

Ministering  condolement  to  their  grief, 

And  counsel  for  their  guidance  ;  how  the  Earth 

Sprung  into  life  at  His  immortal  word, 

And  forests  rose  from  the  unfathomed  sea, 

Blooming  in  beauty;  and  how,  when  their  sire 

Had  sinn'd,  and  woe  was  born  of  his  offence, 

And  troubles  came,  and  he  was  driven  forth 

From  Paradise,  on  diamond  pinions  flew 

Young  Hope  before  him  on  his  exile  way, 

Winning  him  gently  from  his  cherished  grief, 

And  lighting  with  her  smile  the  rugged  path, 

That,  through  the  gloom  of  years,  led  unto  bliss. 

In  such  discourse  on  laws  and  legends  passed 

The  lingering  night,  and  not  a  sound  revealed 

The  terrors  of  the  awful  day  to  come. 

The  dewy  glistening  of  the  starlight  groves, 
The  hush  of  the  broad  leaves,  the  scudding  clouds, 
Through  whose  dim  folds  full  many  a  diamond  star 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  17 

Looked  beautiful— the  stillness  and  the  charm 
Of  Night — the  poet's  hour  of  love — when  heaven 
Bends  o'er  his  bosom  smiling  !  all  the  scene 

•reathed  sweetness  and  blushed  odours ;  rivulets 
Glided  along  in  music,  faint  and  soft 
As  the  low  breathing  of  a  newborn  babe, 
And  the  trees  sighed  their  melancholy  song 
To  the  night-breeze,  so  indistinct,  the  ear 
Could  catch  the  hum  of  silence;  in  the  vale 
The  flow  of  Jordan  by  its  reedy  banks. 
Where  hive  the  honey-bees  and  herons  build, 
Mysterious  rose,  and  melancholy  notes, 
(Such  as  float  o'er  the  heart  in  rapture's  hour 
When  lofty  thoughts  with  inspiration  burn,) 
Sighed  o'er  the  hills  and  mingled  with  the  breath 
Of  flocks  that  slept  upon  the  upland  mead. 

It  was  a  lovely  scene — a  holy  time, 
A  season  of  deep  feeling,  and  a  place 
Whose  garniture  was  love ;  the  senses  sleep 
The  spirit  wakes  to  bliss  on  such  a  night  ; 
The  outward  forms  of  cold  realities 
Are  mellowed  into  beauty,  and  the  heart 
Is  lifted  up  into  a  realm  of  dreams 
And  visionries  ;  and  glory  fills  the  mind, 
And  we  become  the  pure  abstracted  things 
Imagination  pictures,  when  we  rove 
By  flowery  brooks  or  on  the  mountainside, 
Or  mid  the  hyrst's  deep  solitudes  and  muse 
On  the  heart's  mysteries — its  hopes  and  fears, 
Its  trials  and  its  final  destiny. 

Life — what  is  human  life  ?  quick  breathings  sent 
From  the  deep  pulses  of  a  bleeding  heart ! 
Life  !  'tis  the  shadow  of  the  dial-stone, 
The  echo  of  the  solitary  bell! 
Life  !  'tis  the  music  of  departed  days, 
Dew  upon  earth  and  vapour  in  the  sky, 
A  beauty  and  a  glory — and  a  dream ! 
3 


IS  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

On  such  a  holy  night  the  pleasant  scenes 
Of  earlier  life  recur  in  all  their  bloom,. 
And  faded  glories  waken,  and  the  heart 
Is  young  again  ;  the  fountain  of  the  soul, 
Stirr'd  by  the  wings  of  angels,  brings  forth  jo\v 
That  springs  to  being  as  in  olden  time 
Heaven's  daughter  from  the  ocean's  silvery  foam~ 
But  green  leaves  wither  in  the  autumn  winds, 
And  desolation  marks  the  closing  year ; 
Years  blanch  the  head  and  harrow  the  quick  heart. 
And  furrow  the  fair  brow  and  crush  the  frame, 
And  leave  us  blighted  hopes  and  broken  hearts, 
And  scattered  vestiges  of  wasted  power; 
And  we  are  left  alone  in  the  cold  world, 
Without  a  friend,  and  to  life's  lingering  close 
Our  toil  must  be  the  weary  gathenng-in 
Of  blasted  fruits  and  mildewed  flowers  (that  youth 
Planted  in  gladness)  and  despair  o'erlooks 
The  harvest  of  our  agony — alas  !. 
How  deep  we  feel  without  participant 
When  silence  slumbers  on  the  dreamy  heart  I 
But  soon  't  will  prove  a  silence  none  can  break, 
The  shadowing  of  oblivion!  when  the  hopes, 
That  light  the  spirit's  glorious  orrery, 
(The  golden  Chersonesus  of  our  dreams,) 
Will  vanish,  and  the  fearful  night  of  doom 
Will  come,  as  came  the  tempest  of  despair 
O'er  the  proud  nations  of  the  fruitful  Plain. 

In  meek  and  solemn  worship  Haran's  son 
Had  offered  up  his  evening  sacrifice 
When  the  angelic  visitants  appeared. 

From  the  outer  gate  of  Sodom,  revently 
The  unpersuading  advocate  of  truth 
Among  the  faithless  Punics  of  old  days, 
The  moral  Centaurs  of  a  peopled  waste, — 
Whose  nameless  guilt  in  latter  time  hath  grown 
Into  the  proverb  of  supremest  shame, 
A  word  ineffable — arose,  sole  good 
Mid  evil,  mid  the  bann'd  sole  bless'd,  and  bowed 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  19 

Before  the  avenging  ministers  of  doom. 

Onward  through  mocking  multitudes  he  led 

The  heavenly  visitants,  and,  though  reviled, 

He  answered  not  again  ;•  the  holy  light 

Of  his  example,  like  the  Hyades, 

Shone  in  a  cold  and  cloudy  clime ;  to  him 

Truth  was  a  triumph,  virtue  a  reward, 

And  evil  things  the  dusky  hues  that  gave 

His  glory  lustre;  like  Gyrene's  sage, 

fie  felt  the  troubles  of  humanity, 

But  not  like  him  pourtrayed  them  ;  he  was  meek 

And  patient  in  his  sufferance  of  earth's  ills, 

For  'mid  the  worst  of  woe  he  e'er  beheld 

Redeeming  judgement  in  a  holier  world. 

He  had  gone  forth  by  Jordan's  banks  to  pray 

With  heart  as  pure  as  the  famed  river's  spring, 

The  fountain  Paneade  :  and  he  had  gazed 

On  Palestine's  blue  hills,  and  breathed  the  airs 

Of  Araby  the  Blest,  while  pondering  o'er 

The  sin,  the  shame,  the  guilt,  the  wanton  lust, 

fall  who  shared  the  mercies  of  the  Lord 
E'en  with  his  chosen ;  the  good  man  alone 
Had  wandered  forth  to  pray,  arid  more,  perc  hance, 
To  lead  some  atheist  to  the  tree  of  life. 
And  so  he  sat  in  Sodom's  gate,  and  night 
Look'd  down  upon  him  from  her  starry  throne 
With  a  mild  sorrow,  and  her  gentle  dews 
Fell  round  him  in  the  starlight,  and  his  heart 
Grew  calm  beneath  the  blessed  influence 
Of  that  sweet  hour  when  dovelike  breezes  bring 
Soft  odours  from  the  flower,  and  the  stars 
Are  full  of  glory,  and  the  dark  cold  earth 
Looks  beautiful  amid  the  holy  light. 
Wrapt  in  his  high  communion,  passers-by 
Blasphemed  him  as  they  went  and  on  him  threw 
Reproach  and  scorn;  like  misbelievers  now, 
Unto  his  warnings  rendering  mad  replies — 
"  Hoar  hypocrite  !  thy  drivelling  suits  thee  well !" 
But  faithful  still  and  reckless  of  his  doom, 
Like  the  first  martyr  dying  at  his  shrine, 
His  voice  was  raised  against  all  evil  men, 


20  THE  CITIES  OF  THE   PLAIN. 

In  peril's  hour  his  spirit  slumbered  not. 

Strong  in  his  faith,  temptation  he  o'ercame, 

Collusion  scorned ;  with  priests  and  haughty  kings, 

Like  Agelnoth  and  Agobard,  he  held 

His  soul  triumphant,  though  wassailers  drowned 

His  fond  orisons  in  loud  mockeries. 

"  The  mercy  of  the  Lord  doth  linger  long, 

"  His  loving-kindness  hath  been  sorely  tried," 

Said  Haran's  chosen  son ;  and — as  he  spake — 

The  dread  destroyers  entered  Sodom's  gate. 

In  ancient  days,  ere  Shiloh's  advent,  God 
Held  commune  with  his  chosen,  as  a  man 
With  his  familiar  friend ;  his  angels  flew, 
Invisible  couriers  of  sightless  air, 
On  good  or  evil  mission,  like  the  bolt 
That  lightens  through  immensity,  till  earth 
Drew  near :  then  as  their  glorious  pinions  fann'd 
The  dark,  gross  atmosphere  of  this  lower  world, 
They,  on  the  instant,  took  a  human  shape, 
And  clothed  their  heavenly  essence  in  the  garb 
Of  human  habitude.     And  these  that  now 
Left  their  bright  thrones  on  men  and  evil  things 
To  pour  long  suffering  vengeance,  wore  the  forms 
And  did  observe  the  usages  of  men, 
Apparent  sustenance  and  rest  received, 
Indulged  discourse  of  earthly  interests, 
And  held  the  stranger's  converse  for  a  while  : 
How  flocks  and  herds  did  prosper;  how  the  fields 
Yielded  their  vintage ;  how  the  cities  thrived 
In  commerce  with  the  nations.     Thence  they  spake 
Of  government  and  laws,  and  moral  use 
Of  privilege  vouchsafed ;  "  Doth  man  retain, 
"  Like  the  seashell  when  taken  from  the  deep, 
"A  living  witness  of  his  godlike  birth? 
"  Or,  like  the  rose-flower's  spirit,  doth  his  heart 
"  Derive  its  breath  of  praise  from  holy  air?" 
With  downcast  eyes  and  clouded  brow,  their  host 
Sighed  mournful  disallowance,  and  a  tear 
Fell  from  the  good  man's  eye — it  could  not  save 
The  guilty  wantoning  in  loathsome  crime  ! 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  21 

Amid  their  speech  a  hum  of  multitudes 
Far  distant  rose,  and  shouts  and  lozel  cries, 
With  fiendish  imprecations,  blasphemies, 
Wild  howlings  and  loud  mockeries  ;  and  a  rush 
Of  a  vast  throng  was  heard,  like  autumn  winds 
Pent  long  in  mountain  hollows,  when  they  burst 
At  the  dead  midnight  forth  ;  and  the  deep  tramp 
Of  feet  wex'd  audible,  and  human  forms 
Distincter  grew  in  one  tumultuous  mass. 
Nearer  they  came  and  wilder  rose  their  cries, 
Blent  with  the  clash  of  weapons,  swords  and  spears 
And  instruments  of  carnage  :  confident, 
Exulting  in  their  power,  no  law  with  them 
Availed  to  shield  the  guiltless,  or  deter 
The  sinner,  save  the  insolent  caprice 
Of  hot-brained  revel.     Onward  so  they  came, 
Like  billows  breaking  over  ocean  reefs, 
And  leaguered  the  lone  mansion,  summoning, 
For  deeds  ineffable,  the  stranger  guests. 
But  silent  stood  the  Arbiters  of  Doom, 
Though  o'er  their  seraph  brows  a  glory  passed, 
Like  the  revealment  of  electric  fire 
On  the  dark  outskirts  of  the  hurricane. 
Again  wild  curses  rose  and  blasphemies, 
Again  the  summons  pealed  aloud — but  yet 
The  HIGH  THREE  mov'd  not ;  fear  to  them  unknown, 
And  peril,  they  beheld  the  guilt  and  grief 
Of  man,  with  marvelling  and  ruth  ;  and  still 
They  held  their  awful  strength  unmenacing. 
On  pressed  the  maddened  tumult,  and  the  gate 
Rung,  shook  and  shivered  'neath  the  mad  assault. 
But  yet  their  fixed  gaze  changed  not !     Vainly  now 
The  eloquent  voice  of  Haran's  son  arose, 
Vain  his  fond  prayer,  his  intercession  vain, 
His  last  despairing  sacrifice  to  save 
The  perpetration  of  the  unhallowed  deed. 
They  mock'd,  they  spurn'd  him  ;  shouts  and  savage  yells, 
Loud  oaths  and  curses,  intermingled,  rose 
Far  o'er  the  city,  and  the  starlight  skies 
Echoed  the  startling  echo — while  the  hearts 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

Of  Lot' s  beloved  fainted  in  their  fear, 

And  exultation  bade  the  throng  rush  on, 

And  seize  with  ruffian  grasp,  and  bear  away — 

— Back  fell  astonished  the  vast  multitude ! 

Silence  stood  listening  for  their  blasphemies ! 

Amid  the  throng  no  voice  was  heard,  nor  sound 

Of  human  life;  like  pillars  in  the  gloom 

Of  Night  they  stood — blind,  motionless  and  dumb  ! 

The  earth  beneath  them  quaked,  a  moaning  sound 

Passed  o'er  their  spirits  like  the  distant  roll 

Of  chariots  in  the  battle,  or  the  sea 

Searching  the  caverns  of  the  mountain  rocks, 

Where  the  proud  lion  meets  leviathan, 

And  mammoth  gores  behemoth  ;  then  they  fell 

In  the  highway,  and  side  by  side  sunk  down, 

Victims  of  unseen  power  ;  they  rose  no  more  ! 

"  Go,  warn  thy  kindred  that  they  tarry  not, 
"  For  wrath  awaits,  and  vengeance  is  abroad  ; 
"  Loose  not  the  girdle  of  thy  loins — break  not 
"  The  latchet  of  thy  sandal-shoon — away! 
"  The  bow  is  bended  and  the  arrow  drawn, 
"  The  hearts  of  men  are  branded  deep  with  guilt, 
"  The  earth  is  stained  with  evil,  and  the  voice 
"  Of  stern  oppression  reacheth  unto  heaven. 
"Go  forth  among  the  Zuzims,  seek  thy  kin, 
"  And  cry  woe,  woe  to  him  who  tarrieth  here  ! 
"  The  Chastener  lifts  his  sword  !  the  Avenger  comes ! 
"  Like  the  strong  oaks  of  Bashan,  they  shall  fail, 
"  The  mighty — blasted  as  an  autumn  leaf, 
"  E'en  in  the  strength  of  their  dominion — now  ! 
"  The  slayers  are  abroad — the  storm  of  death 
"  Already  hurtles  in  the  troubled  air. 
"  Haste  !  haste  away  !" — And  forth  the  good  man  went. 

— O  Hope  !  creator  of  a  fairy  heaven  ! 
Manna  of  angels  !  rainbow  of  the  heart, 
That,  throned  in  heaven,  doth  ever  rest  on  earth ! 
From  our  first  sigh,  unto  our  latest  groan, 
From  the  first  throb  until  the  heart  is  cold, 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

Thou  art  a  gladness  and  a  mockery, 
A  glory  and  a  vision — thou  sweet  child 
Of  the  immortal  spirit !     In  our  days 
Of  sorrow,  with  thy  bland  hypocrisies, 
Thou  dost  delude  us,  and  we  love  and  trust 
Thy  beautiful  illusions,  though  the  soil 
Of  disappointment  yet  is  on  our  souls. 
Thou  eldorado  of  the  poor  man's  dream  ! 
Sire  of  repentance!  child  of  vain  desires  ! 
The  bleeding  heart  clings  to  thee  when  all  hope 
Is  madness;  o'er  our  thoughts  thou  ever  holdst 
Eternal  empire — and  thou  dost  console 
The  felon  in  his  cell,  the  galley  slave, 
The  exile  and  the  wanderer  o'er  the  earth, 
And  pour'st  the  balm  of  transitory  peace 
E'en  on  the  heart  that  sighs  o'er  kindred  guilt. 

Guided  by  thee,  forth  went  the  holy  man, 
And  told  of  gathering  ruin,  but  his  sons 
Held  banqueting  with  lemans,  and  they  scorned 
The  warning  of  their  hoary  sire  ;  and  e'er, 
Amid  the  blandishments  of  soug  and  dance, 
The  music,  perfume  and  bewilderment 
Of  heart  and  brain — the  dreamy  revelries 
Of  a  rejoicing  spirit,  high  and  proud, 
His  daughters  listened  not  in  danger's  hour  ; 
"  Father  !  thy  dreams  ill  suit  the  festive  hall ! 
"  Thy  beggar  pilgrims  will  o'erturn  the  world  ! 
"  The  winged  creatures  of  the  fair  blue  air 
"Would  scern  the  deed  discourteous ;  shall  they  mar 
"  Our  mirth  to  whom  unceasing  joy  and  love 
"  Are 'one  eternal  birthright?  Oh  !  rejoice! 
"  The  deluge  hath  been  once — the  bow  is  set — 
"  Chaos  is  passed — lead  on  the  joyous  dance  ! 
"  Away  !  away  !  alas,  the  mad  old  man ! 
"  Woe  to  gainsayers  when  the  Lord  commands !  " 
It  seemed  the  sighing  of  the  summer  wind 
Or  echo  of  the  viol,  and  the  dance 
Moved  on — the  banquet  and  the  wantoning. 
Thus  to  the  last  beseeching  and  the  wail 


24  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

Of  agonized  affection  made  reply 

The  sons  of  heatheness — the  bitter  fruit 

Of  many  a  wakeful  watching — many  an  hour 

Of  toil  and  trouble  and  redeeming  joy. 

They  scorned  the  prophecy  and  they  were  scorned 

In  its  accomplishment ;  a  father's  voice, 

Unheeded,  called  aloud  on  righteous  heaven, 

And  desolation  on  their  pride  came  down. 

With  a  sick  heart  the  son  of  Haran  turned 

From  grandeur,  guilt,  and  madness — and  pursued 

His  lonely  way  with  faltering  steps  and  slow; 

And  oft  he  stopp'd  and  gazed  and  wept  alone 

For  his  doomed  children — left  in  ruin's  grasp — 

Then  followed  on  his  solitary  path, 

Wailing  and  weeping,  as  he  passed  away. 

Around  his  dwelling  all  was  stillness  now 

And  silvery  silence,  and  the  good  man  paused 

In  meditation  on  his  earlier  days, 

When  far  away,  in  Ur  of  the  Chaldees, 

He  felt  the  bliss  of  being,  ere  the  woes 

Of  life  came  o'er  him — ere  his  bosom  knew 

The  canker  that  corrodes  the  hollow  heart, 

The  last  extremity  of  grief,  the  strife 

Of  earth  and  heaven — of  fervent,  long-tried  love 

With  conscious  worthlessness  !  It  was  the  hour 

When  rosy  Morn  meets  her  dark  sister  Night 

Upon  the  confines  of  their  wide  demesnes, 

And  the  gray  shadows  darkened  while  nor  sun, 

Nor  moon,  nor  stars,  held  empire  o'er  the  world. 

Dark  fell  the  dream  of  other  days  upon 

The  Chaldee's  heart ;  a  vision  rose  before 

His  spirit — and  he  wept ! — 

"  Haste  !  haste  away  !  " 
Cried  the  destroyers— and  the  upper  air 
Was  full  of  voices,  crying  "  haste  away  ! 
"  The  storm  of  ruin  sleeps  till  thou  art  past 
"The  mountains  of  thy  refuge;  heaven  doth  bear 
"  The  guilt  of  men  till  thou  hast  fled  afar. 
"  Fly  to  the  deep  clefts  of  the  rugged  rocks, 
"  The  mansions  of  the  ancient  hills — away ! 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  25 

"  Must  they  be  left  in  unredeemed  despair, 
"  Doom'd  to  the  death  of  demons — they  who  clung 
"  Unto  thy  bosom,  Love  !  whose  smiles  and  tears 
"Were  rainbows  to  our  bridal  blessedness? 
"  Who  were  to  us  a  treasure  and  a  joy, 
"  A  trouble  and  a  triumph  o'er  the  ills 
"  That  ever  wait  our  portion  on  the  earth  ! 
"  Must  they  be  left  who  laughed  and  leapt  for  joy 
"  Amid  the  green  woods  and  the  viny  fields, 
"  Adoring  the  Supreme  whom  now  they  scorn  ? 
"  Oh  !  must  they  perish  in  their  guilt  ?  " — "  Away!  " 
A  cold,  stern  answer  to  a  father's  love ; 
And  tears  gushed  from  his  aged  eyes,  and  grief 
Swelled  in  his  widowed  bosom,  as  he  turned 
On  his  departure — yet  such  tears  and  woes — 
So  deep — so  awful — even  angels  felt 
A  portion  of  their  bitterness,  though  none 
Flow  from  the  sunlight  fountains  of  their  bliss. 
Slowly  the  Orient  kindled  in  the  dawn, 
And  dusky  vapours  curled,  in  grotesqua  forms, 
O'er  vale  and  upland,  tinged  with  lurid  light, 
That  heaved  in  masses  o'er  the  ancient  hills, 
Darkening  the  brow  of  snowy  Lebanon, 
And  over  Tabor,  Hermon,  and  the  plains 
Of  Ezdraelon  hanging  like  the  smoke 
Of  Hecla  o'er  Icelandic  solitudes. 
Forth  went  the  Chosen  Family,  in  haste, 
And  the  High  Three,  like  towers  of  strength,  behind 
Majestic  marched  ;  o'er  Siddi  n's  purple  plain, 
(Late  field  of  slaughter,  where  the  haughty  king 
Chedorlaomer  battled  with  his  foes, 
The  rebel  sovereigns  of  the  tribute  towns) 
They  fled  in  terror  to  the  hills  ;  and  dark 
And  darker  grew  the  heavens ;  fitful  gleams 
Of  gory  gloom  threw  o'er  the  sable  skies 
Unnatural  blackness  ;  bloodred  clouds  arose, 
And  all  the  horizon  quivered  as  they  rushed 
In  giant  armies  to  the  cope  of  heaven. 
Like  fiery  vapours  of  a  burning  world, 
They  gathered  round  and  shut  out  light  and  joy 
4 


25  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PJLAtJT, 

From  the  devoted  victims  of  despair. 

And  they,  who  were  in  after  ages  called 

Mothers  of  nations,  gazed  in  shuddering  fear 

Where  the  red  banner  of  destruction  shook 

O'er  Palestine's  dark  mountains  and  the  towers 

Of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah;  and  deep  sounds, 

As  of  the  sundering  of  the  earth,  arose, 

And  hollow  moanings,  as  the  world  bewailed 

The  ruin  of  its  fairest  though  its  worst. 

The  birds,  with  open  beaks  and  fluttering  wingsr 

Rose  from  the  creaking  woods  and  fled  in  haste 

Unto  the  pinnacles  of  mountains,  crowned 

With  forests  inaccessible,  or  down 

Mid  dells  and  gorges  and  cliff-arched  ravines 

Took  refuge,  trembling — ever  and  anon 

Peering  with  terror  o'er  the  ragged  rocks, 

Then  shrinking  quickly  back;  the  flocks  and  herds 

Looked  up  amazed  as  o'er  the  morning  skies 

Gathered  the  miracle  of  horror's  night ; 

The  green  turf  withered  and  the  fountains  turned 

To  poison,  and  the  leaves  in  cinders  dropped, 

And  the  dark  waters  quivered  and  men's  breath 

Became  an  agony,  and  all  the  air 

Seem'd  panting  ;  and  the  starting  eye  grew  wild 

Beholding  things  o'erturned  and  mixed  and  lost 

In  a  strange  chaos;  't  was  a  fearful  time, 

A  desolation  to  the  trembling  heart  ; 

And  nature  groaned  through  all  her  matchless  works 

When  Guilt  called  down  the  vengeance  of  the  Just. 

"  Time  wears  apace — Almighty  vengeance  waits, 
"  Flee  to  the  caverns — to  the  mountains  flee  ! 
"  Look  not  behind,  for  desolation's  wings 
44  Winnow  the  Cities  of  the  Plain ;  they  are, 
"  They  shall  not  be  ;  like  a  forsaken  bough, 
"  Whose  fruit  doth  turn  to  ashes,  or  a  tower 
"  Left  in  deserted  vineyard  to  become 
"  The  dwelling  of  the  owl  and  bat — so  they 
"  Shall  be  a  hissing  and  a  scorn  forever  ! 
"  Their  days  are  numbered  and  their  guilt  is  sealed  ; 


THE  CITIES  OF  TIIR   PLAIIf.  27 

*'  Like  chaff  before  the  whirlwind,  when  the  storm 

"  Howls  o'er  the  hills,  in  all  their  pride  and  power, 

"E'en  in  a  moment  they  shall  disappear: 

44  And  never  more  the  sound  of  mirth — the  song, 

44  Tfoe  voice  of  bridal  or  of  banqueting, 

"  The  prayers  of  idol  worship  or  the  noise 

"Of  battle  shall  be  heard  in  all  their  realms. 

44  The  hour  draws  nigh  ;  the  sons  of  evil  now 

"  Are  ripe  for  judgement ;  lo  !  amid  the  skies 

"  The  banner  of  the  Terrible !  away  !  " 

Thus  urged  the  high  Avengers  and  their  cry 

Was  ever  to  all  searchings  into  doom — 

44  On  !  for  the  judgement  of  the  LORD  delays  ! 

44  Behold  !  the  heavens  grow  darker  and  the  clouds 

44  Hang  in  the  sky  like  Ararat's  great  ark 

44  Above  the  drowning  world — a  fearful  sign 

"  To  earth  and  heaven  ;  dark  stand  the  forest  trees 

44  And  leafless — verdure  hath  forsaken  earth — 

**  Arid  bird  and  beast  are  gasping  out  their  breath, 

"  That  soon  will  close — and  yet  the  Cities  sleep  i 

44  The  shattered  elements  are  leagued  in  war — 

44  Terror  before  and  wild  affright ;  behind, 

"  Fear,  feeble  as  the  unweaned  child  that  shrinks 

44  And  shudders  while  the  tempest  sweeps  along  I 

44  Unto  the  mountains  of  thy  refuge  fly  !  " 

And  on  they  hurried  ;  but  the  human  heart 

Lingers,  like  Adam  near  lost  paradise, 

Loth  to  forsake  the  objects  of  its  love, 

Cleaves  to  its  wedded  blisses  and  imparts 

Its  sweet  affections,  like  the  sun  to  heaven, 

To  all  it  cherished  in  life's  earlier  years. 

When  clays  of  evil  come  and  sorrows  crush 

Our  quick  and  fine-toned  feelings  to  the  dust; 

And  we  must  wear  the  sackcloth  of  the  heart. 

And  leave  beloved  things  and  pass  away 

When  Danger's  eye  is  on  them  and  the  sword 

Is  ready  to  devour — the  spirit  's  tried 

As  in  a  fiery  furnace  ;  when  despair 

Asunder  rends  the  bleeding  bonds  of  lova, 

And  to  the  bosom  <»ven  quilt  is  dear. 


28  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

How  dreadful  is  the  sacrifice  of  all 
The  soul  hath  sanctified!  Without  a  pang, 
A  last,  long  lingering  gaze  that  bids  farewell 
Forever  and  forever,  who  can  part 
From  beings  loved  though  lost  to  loveliness  ? 
It  is  a  bitter  trial  to  forsake, 
E'en  for  a  season  in  this  changeful  world, 
The  things  we  cherish  !  strange  uncertainties 
Await  the  briefest  interval — an  hour 
Hath  changed  the  destinies  of  half  the  world, 
A  moment  sundered  hearts  that  met  no  more. 
But,  oh !  to  part  from  dear  familiar  scenes 
And  creatures  of  endearment  and  to  know 
Death  and  eternity  will  be  between 
All  future  meeting — 't  is  a  cup  of  woe, 
That  burns  and  burns  forever  in  the  soul, 
Till  the  grave  closes  o'er  its  agonies. 
Vain,  from  the  lips  of  angels,  is  the  hest, 
That  bars  the  love  of  mother  from  her  child  ; 
Love,  which  is  born  of  woe  and  sanctified 
By  suffering  ;  knows  no  limit,  feels  no  want 
When  fearful  maladies  assail ;  in  days 
Of  cold  adversity  shares  every  grief, 
And  is  a  higher  joy  than  earth  affords 
When  sunny  seasons  blossom  !  From  the  fount 
Of  her  devoted  heart  her  spirit  flows 
Through  every  vein  whose  life  was  born  in  hers, — 
And  death  may  stifle  but  can  never  quench 
The  love  -whose  birth-hour  is  eternity. 
From  the  last  hill  top  that  overlooked  the  plain, 
When  the  last  glance  must  now  be  rendered  back, 
The  last  sigh  given  for  forsaken  love, 
Ere  from  the  view  she  sunk  forever,  turned 
The  Victim  Mother  once  again  to  weep 
The  guilt  and  ruin  of  the  loved,  the  lost, 
*The  young,  the  beautiful ;  her  writhen  brow 
Breathed  anguish,  and  her  wildly  straining  eyes 
Sought  vainly  for  the  dwellings  of  the  doomed ! 
With  outstretched  arms  and  quivering  lips,  she  stood 
In  agony  unuttered — unrelieved, 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  29 

By  sigh  or  tear ;  and  so  her  spirit  fled, 
The  broken  heart  lay  bleeding,  but  the  life 
Vanished — and  there,  Death's  chosen  monument, 
She  stands,  o'erlooking  the  Dead  Sea,  e'en  now, 
Where  herb,  nor  tree,  nor  winged  bird  can  live, 
Where  all  her  hopes  were  buried  in  the  gulf 
Of  desolating  ruin  ;  there  she  stands, 
The  mother  dying  for  her  children's  sake, 
The  Niobe  of  nature!  sculptured  Love! 
More  beautiful  than  Venus  in  her  pride  ! 
Draw  near,  behold  the  triumph  of  the  heart 
O'er  terror  and  the  war  of  earth  and  heaven  ! 

From  every  point  of  heaven  the  black  clouds  rolled 
In  masses  to  the  zenith,  and  the  woods 
Crumbled  to  ashes,  and  unearthly  sounds 
Moaned  in  the  caverns  of  the  ancient  hills, 
And  every  rushing  stream  was  like  a  flood 
Of  flame  that  burned  along  its  blacken'd  way. 
There  was  no  sun  in  the  o'erpurpled  East, 
But  a  dark  gory  globe,  the  abode  of  fiends, 
That  like  a  mighty  wreck,  mid  fire  and  gloom, 
Tossing  along  the  billows,  but  revealed 
Terrors  the  spirit  shuddered  to  behold — 
For  Retribution  sat  enthroned  in  Heaven. 

While  thus  the  Chosen  fled  unto  the  hills, 
Amid  the  glorious  oriental  night, 
The  voice  of  Songsters  and  the  vioPs  play, 
The  merry  music  of  the  psaltery, 
And  dulcimer  and  harp  and  tabret  rose 
Through  palace  court,  the  chambers  and  sweet  bowers 
Of  the  proud,  purple  Cities  of  the  Plain ; 
And  carollings  of  high  carousal  blent 
With  lozel  strains  and  battle  songs  and  jests 
Not  to  be  uttered  in  these  latter  days, 
And  maniac  shouting,  with  the  long,  loud  laugh, 
Revealing  a  light  heart,  whose  breath  was  mirth, 
That  throbbed,  undreading  ill  or  pain  or  death, 
In  confidence  of  many  joyous  days 


SO  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  FLAIJT. 

Sunny  as  Yemen  or  the  paradise 
Of  Islam's  dark-eyed  houris;  and  the  cup 
Was  pledged  to  beauty  while  the  mazy  dance 
Echoed  the  sound  of  sweet-toned  instruments, 
And  eyes  voluptuous,  brighter  than  the  gems 
That  glittered  on  the  full  white  bosom,  rolled 
Around  the  pillar'd  halls,  and,  wantonly, 
Their  magic  glances  flashed  on  every  heart. 
Like  sunbows  arched  along  the  wavy  cloud, 
Born  of  the  lightning  and  the  rain-shower,  Love, 
High  master  of  the  revel,  threw  around 
His  wizard  glances  and  the  throng  obeyed 
The  eloquent  behest ;  white  bosoms  heaved 
Beneath  transparent  draperies,  that  gave 
Mysterious  beauty  to  the  bounding  limbs, 
And  the  flushed  brow  and  burning  cheek  and  lip, 
The  rosy  wines,  the  mellow  fruits — the  glow 
Of  thousand  lights — the  gushing  waterfalls, 
Whose  music  stole  along  the  outer  courts, 
The  bloom  of  nature  and  the  flush  of  hope, 
The  shadowed  forms,  the  winning  attitudes, 
And  the  wild  fever  of  excited  sense — 
All  filled  the  brain  with  visions  of  delight, 
And  the  heart  rioted  in  wanton  bliss. 

O  holy  Night !  unto  the  sage  thou  art, 
And  to  the  poet  and  the  prophet  e'er 
A  time  of  gladness  ;  when,  mid  antique  lore, 
And  visionary  phantasies  and  dreams, 
And  glorious  revelations,  they  become 
Beings  of  brighter  worlds  than  this,  thou  art 
A  season  of  deep  counsel  and  high  thoughts, 
Or  when  the  hollowness  and  falsities 
Of  earthly  things  oppress  the  lofty  mind 
In  day's  rude  glare,  thou  comest  with  a  step 
So  gentle  that  the  weary  heart  hath  rest 
In  thy  soft  shadows ;  but,  to  evil  men 
And  evil  purposes,  thine  hours  become 
The  robe  of  guilt  that  gloats  and  feeds  on  shame. 
Oh  !  many  a  deed,  darker  than  is  thy  gloom, 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIH.  81 

Lies  hidden  in  thy  lone  recesses  here, 
But,  over  all,  there  looketh  forth  an  Eye, 
To  which  the  darkness  is  no  covering. 

Sabea's  caravan,  the  worshippers 
Of  Mythra  and  Zohail  and  Mazzalolh, 
Loaded  with  gorgeous  raiment  and  perfumes, 
From  Araby  the  Blest,  and  pearls  and  shells, 
From  Oman's  sea,  whose  shore  the  wild  kings  roam, 
Pictured  like  rainbows  or  the  leprous  heart 
Of  a  proud  priest  whose  soul  is  sacrilege, 
Ere  that  dread  eve  of  judgement,  when  the  Lord 
Gathered  his  terrors  for  an  utter  war 
And  desolation  of  unrighteous  men, 
Had  entered  in  Gomorrah  and  diffused 
Gladness  through  all  the  Cities  of  the  Plain. 
Oh!  then  they  dreamed  on  long  bright  years  of  wealth 
And  glory  arid  rejoicing,  and  their  hearts 
Rebelled  in  haughty  confidence ;  their  gods 
Became  a  jesting  and  a  mockery  ; 
Earth  was  elysium — for  the  world  had  poured 
Its  treasures  o'er  them  and  their  lot  was  blessed. 
Trusting  their  own  frail  pride,  they  scorned  the  Power, 
That  spanned  the  heavens,  forgetting  He  could  wear 
Garments  of  vengeance  and  hear  not  the  voice 
Of  dying  supplication,  when  He  trod 
The  winepress  of  his  wrath  and  on  them  poured 
Dark  retribution — when  the  cup  of  woe 
Was  drained  unto  its  deepest  dregs — and  when 
He  wrapt  the  blazing  heavens  around  His  brow, 
And  in  the  majesty  of  glory  came, 
Earth,  seas,  and  skies  dissolving  at  His  frown. 
Far  streamed  the  festive  lights  through  colonnade 
And  banquet  hall  and  palace  bower,  and  forms, 
In  bright  array  were  flitting  there,  and  all 
The  sons  and  daughters  of  the  wise  Chaldee 
Were  gay  as  birds  of  Paradise ;  the  voice 
Of  beauty  chanted  the  lascivious  song, 
And  perfume  floated  in  the  music's  breath. 
But,  oh,  the  madness  of  the  rnirth !  no  dream 


32  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 

Portended  woe  to  come ;  no  omen  taught 
Mysterious  prophecy;  the  hoary  sage, 
The  tiar'd  priest  of  the  strong  Emirns  failed 
In  knowledge  of  his  lore ;  the  enchanter  now, 
Amazed,  beheld  his  magic  science  lost. 
Lone  stood  the  temples — every  idol  fell, 
But  none  were  there  to  mark  the  prodigy. 
The  starry  genii  held  their  altitudes 
Indicative  of  no  disaster  now, 
And  not  a  whisper  breathed  that  could  forewarn 
The  terrors  of  the  dawn  ;  so  joyance  leapt 
In  every  heart  until  their  halls  grew  dim, 
And  weary  nature  craved  repose; — then  sunk 
The  gay  host  into  slumber;  death  were  not 
A  deeper  solitude — save  where  the  step 
Of  the  bent  pilgrim,  hastening  on  his  way, 
Broke  the"  deep  silence  of  the  cities  doomed, 
Or  the  lone  caravan,  departing,  sent 
The  echoes  of  their  many  hurrying  feet. 

The  storm  of  wrath  had  gathered  and  it  hung 
In  giant  folds  of  blackness  round  the  skies, 
Revealed,  not  lightened  by  the  glorious  sun, 
Whose  disk  gloomed  like  an  universe  of  blood — 
A  burning  ocean  from  the  hearts  of  men. 
The  thick,  hushed  atmosphere  did  seem  alive, 
And  beings  diabolic  in  the  clouds 
Laughed  louder  than  the  storm's  mysterious  roar. 
Beneath  the  black  and  sundered  rocks  the  herds 
Lay  gasping  in  their  agonies,  and  oft 
The  forests  and  the  crags  fell  down  and  crushed 
The  dying;  yet  no  wind  stirr'd  the  dead  boughs, 
But  all  the  world  seemed  waiting — mute  and  still— 
The  bursting  of  destruction's  barriers. 
Yet  the  bare,  leafless,  blackened  forests  shook, 
Reeled  and  uptore  the  solid  earth  and  crashed 
Down  the  deep  precipice — and  tigers  howled, 
With  famished  wolves,  and  owls  and  bitterns  moaned, 
And  vultures  swooped  and  screamed,  and  eagles  wheeled, 
(Shunning  to  taste  the  prey  that  Ruin  gave,) 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  33 

Through  the  red  scorching  air  and  shrieked  on  high. 

Now  heaved  the  Earth,  and  deep  low  muttering  sounds 

Passed  o'er  her  dark  abysses,  while  above 

Voices  did  question  and  reply,  in  words 

That  sounded  like  a  deep  toned  organ's  roll. 

These  were  the  oracles  of  coming  doom, 

But  none  did  hear  them  save  the  Shepherd  Prince 

And  Haran's  son  in  Zoar — and  they  knelt 

In  prayer  for  all  who  were  to  perish  now. 

Darker  and  darker  grew  the  storm ;  the  glare 

And  gloom  were  terrible  ;  the  pause — the  awe — 

The  riot  of  the  hurrying  elements — 

The  howling  of  the  demons  o'er  their  prey — 

The  bursting  earth  and  the  dissolving  sky. 

Wild  meteors  burst  amid  the  lurid  heavens 

Louder  than  all  the  world's  artillery, 

And  shattered  globes  of  fire  glared  o'er  the  gloom, 

Like  hell's  eternal  billows  through  the  night 

Of  death  that  dies  not — horror  without  end. 

As  when  the  sea-flood,  Orellana  meets 
In  conflict  with  the  ocean,  every  isle 
Of  Amazonia  quivers  in  the  shock, 
So  the  earth  trembled  when  the  whirlwind  rose 
And  howled  through  ether  with  a  louder  roar 
Than  the  tornado  of  the  equinox. 
Unearthly  voices  echoed  through  the  heavens 
As  every  hurrying  cloud  of  fire  on  high 
Had  its  peculiar  captain  in  the  war 
Of  God  with  men.     Now,  at  the  appointed  hour 
Of  vengeance,  burst  from  every  point  of  heaven 
The  tempest  of  destruction  ;  awfully 
The  shattering  thunders  broke— the  lightning  fell 
In  one  wild  blaze  unquenchable — a  flood 
Of  flame  as  if  the  fountains  of  the  skies 
Were  broken  up  and  earth  and  nature  given 
A  sacrifice  to  judgement ! — Now  awoke 
The  slumbering  Cities  in  their  agony 
And  utter  woe,  for  o'er  them  leapt  and  hissed, 
In  serpent  wreaths,  the  master  element, 
5 


34  THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAlX* 

That  mounted  up  in  pyramids  of  flame, 

As  it  would  mingle  with  the  burning  heavens, 

Ye  terrors  of  an  angry  GOD  1  above, 

Below,  a  penal  world  of  gory  light 

No  power  could  quench,  and  thunders,  not  like  earth's, 

At  intervals,  but  one  unceasing  roar, 

So  loud,  all  worlds  replied ;  so  strong,  they  shook 

Ten  thousand  meteors  from  their  sightless  spheres. 

Then  forth,  like  Eblis  and  his  legions  driven 

By  Azrael  from  the  gates  of  Paradise, 

In  madness  rushed  the  myriads  of  the  Plain. 

From  falling  tower  and  crushing  colonnade, 

And  melted  roof  and  shattered  battlement, 

They  leapt  in  raving  agony — the  flames 

Clinging,  like  serpents,  to  their  tender  flesh. 

Then  rose  the  voice  of  wailing ;  then  the  arms 

Of  the  young  mother  grew  around  her  child, 

And  the  son  clung  about  his  father's  neck, 

And  lovely  maidens  fainted  in  their  fear 

And  woke  no  more ;  then  sorcerers  tried  their  charms 

In  vain ;  and  priests  invoked  aloud  their  gods 

Without  reply.     Amid  the  awful  storm, 

Among  their  dying  people,  stood  the  kings, 

The  haughty  gods  of  idol  worshippers, 

Powerless  and  helpless  as  the  unweaned  child, 

While  heaven  above  and  hell  beneath  conjoined 

In  the  destruction;  and  their  crowned  queens 

And  daughters  beautiful  and  kindred  high 

Clung  round  them  wailing,  and  ten  thousand  prayers 

Shrieked  with  unnumbered  curses  !  Towers  of  fire 

Rose  round  them  high  as  heaven,  and  their  flesh 

Consumed,  and  then  their  hollow  cries  and  prayers 

And  imprecations  waxed  more  terrible. 

The  awful  glare  for  leagues  around  revealed 

The  dying  nations ;  Jordan's  swelling  stream 

Boiled  through  the  furnace,  and  the  mountain  clifts 

Unto  their  deep  foundations  shivered — Earth, 

A  trembling  mass  of  fiery  ashes,  heaved 

Beneath  the  countless  multitudes ;  the  world 

Reeled  to  and  fro  and  all  the  heavens  did  seem 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN.  35 

Ready  to  fall — Hosts  upon  hosts  now  lay 

Dead,  and  the  dying  fell  upon  them  there, 

The  monarch  and  the  mendicant — the  prince 

And  peasant,  the  fair  dame  in  Persian  robes 

And  ths  poor  outcast,  side  by  side  were  thrown, 

And,  mid  the  pauses  of  the  tempest,  rose 

Loud  yells  of  agony;  and  demons  then 

Mocked  their  last  anguish,  till  an  angel  voice, 

That  shook  the  heavens,  drowned  the  dying  groans, 

And  cried  "  It  is  enough  !" — the  skies  were  bright ! 

And  on  the  instant,  the  astonished  Earth 

Yawned  in  a  bottomless  chasm  'neath  the  host 

Of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah;  and  the  dead 

And  dying,  mingled  in  a  mass  of  fire 

And  blood,  went  down  into  the  gulf  of  woe, 

And  burning  temples,  palaces  and  towers 

Glared  wildly  o'er  them  as  they  fell !  From  depths 

Dark  and  unmeasured,  like  a  spectre,  rose 

The  Dea^I  and  Deadly  Sea ;  an  outstretched  arm 

Quivered,  at  intervals,  along  the  wave, 

Once  rose  a  shriek  of  Death — and  all  was  still ! 


r     E£i>  HOUSEHOLD   HOURS. 

HOWE'ER  the  sceptic  scoffs,  the  poet  sighs, 
Hope  oft  reveals  her  dimly  shadowed  dreams, 
And  seraph  joy  descends  from  pale  blue  skies, 
And,  like  sweet  sunset  on  wood-skirted  streams, 
Peace  breathes  around  her  stilling  harmonies, 
Her  whispered  music, — while  her  soft  eye  beams — 
And  the  deep  bliss,  that  crowns  the  household  hearth, 
From  all  its  woes  redeems  the  bleeding  earth. 

Like  woods  that  shadow  the  blue  mountain  sky, 
The  troubled  heart  still  seeks  its  home  in  heaven, 
In  those  affections  which  can  never  die, 
In  hallowed  love  and  human  wrongs  forgiven ! 
From  the  fair  gardens  of  THE  BLEST  on  high 
The  fruit  of  life  is  yet  to  lost  man  given, 
And  'mid  the  quiet  of  his  still  abode 
Spirits  attend  him  from  the  throne  of  GOD. 

The  mild  deep  gentleness,  the  smile  that  throws 
Light  from  the  bosom  o'er  the  high  pale  brow, 
And  cheek  that  flushes  like  the  Maymorn  rose ; 
The  all-reposing  sympathies,  that  grow 
Like  violets  in  the  heart,  and  o'er  our  woes 
The  silent  breathings  of  their  beauty  throw — 
Oh !  every  glance  at  daily  life  doth  prove 
The  depth,  the  strength,  the  truth  of  woman's  love  ! 

When  harvest  days  are  past,  and  autumn  skies 
The  giant  forests  tinge  with  glorious  hues, 
How  o'er  the  twilight  of  our  thought  sweet  eyes 
The  fairy  beauty  of  the  soul  diffuse  ! 


HOUSEHOLD  HOURS.  37 

The  inspiring  air  like  spirit  voices  sighs 

Mid  the  close  pines  and  solitary  yews, 

Though  the  broad  leaves  on  forest  boughs  look  sere, 

And  naked  woodlands  wail  the  dying  year. 

Yet  the  late  season  brings  no  hours  of  gloom, 
Though  thoughtful  sadness  sighs  her  evening  hymn, 
For  hearthfires  now  light  up  the  curtained  room, 
And  Love's  wings  float  amid  the  twilight  dim : 
Lost  loved  ones  gather  round  us  from  the  tomb, 
And  blest  revealments  o'er  our  spirits  swim, 
While  Hopes,  that  drooped  in  trials,  soar  on  high, 
And  linked  affections  bear  into  the  sky. 

Then,  side  by  side,  hearts  wedded  in  their  youth, 
In  their  meek  blessedness  expand  and  glow, 
And,  though  the  world  be  faithless,  still  their  truth 
No  pause,  no  change,  no  soil  of  Time  may  know  ! 
They  hold  communion  with  a  world,  in  sooth, 
Beyond  the  stain  of  sin,  the  waste  of  woe, 
And  the  deep  sanctities  of  wellspent  hours 
Crown  their  fair  fame  with  Eden's  deathless  flowers. 

Frail  as  the  moth's  fair  wing  is  common  fame, 
Brief  as  the  sunlight  of  an  April  morn; 
But  Love  perpetuates  the  sacred  name 
Devoted  to  its  shrine ;   in  glory  born, 
The  Boy-God  gladly  to  the  lone  earth  came 
To  vanquish  victors  and  to  smile  at  scorn, 
And  he  will  rise,  when  all  is  finished  here, 
The  holiest  seraph  of  the  highest  sphere. 

As  fell  the  prophet's  mantle,  in  old  time, 

On  the  meek  heir  of  Israel's  sainted  sage, 

Woman  !  so  falls  thy  unseen  power  sublime 

On  the  lone  desert  of  man's  pilgrimage ; 

Thy  sweet  thoughts  breathe,  from  Love's  delicious  clime, 

Beauty  in  youth,  and  Faith  in  fading  age  ; 

Through  all  Earth's  years  of  travail,  strife  and  toil, 

His  parched  affections  linger  round  thy  smile. 


38  THE  SUMMER  EVENING  HYMN. 

In  the  young  beauty  of  thy  womanhood 
Thou  livest  in  the  being  yet  to  be, 
Yearning  for  blessedness  ill  understood, 
And  known,  young  mother !  only  unto  thee. 
Love  is  her  life ;  and  to  the  wise  and  good 
Her  heart  is  heaven — 't  is  even  unto  me, 
Though  oft  misguided  and  betrayed  and  grieved, 
The  only  bliss  of  which  I  'm  not  bereaved. 

Draw  near,  ye  whom  my  bosom  hath  enshrined ! 

O  Thou!  whose  life  breathes  in  my  heart!  and  Thou 

Whose  gentle  spirit  dwelleth  in  my  mind, 

Whose  love,  like  sunlight,  rests  upon  my  brow ! 

Draw  near  the  hearth  !  the  cold  and  moaning  wind 

Scatters  the  ruins  of  the  forest  now, 

But  blessings  crown  us  in  our  own  still  home — 

Hail,  holy  image  of  the  Life  to  come  ! 

Hail,  ye  fair  charities  !  the  mellow  showers 
Of  the  heart's  springtime  !  from  your  rosy  breath 
The  wayworn  pilgrim,  though  the  tempest  lours, 
Breathes  a  new  being  in  the  realm  of  Death, 
And  bears  the  burden  of  life's  darker  hours 
With  cheerlier  aspect  o'er  the  lonely  heath, 
That  spreads  between  us  and  the  unfading  clime 
Where  true  Love  triumphs  o'er  the  death  of  Time. 


THE  SUMMER  EVENING  HYMN. 

WITH  what  a  shadowing  of  her  broad  dim  wings 
Pale  Twilight  stealeth  over  vale  and  hill ! 
And  what  a  floating  crowd  of  fairy  things 
Render  mute  homage  to  her  voiceless  will ! 
Blest  Eventide  !  thy  silent  coming  brings 
Remorseless  Quiet  and  Contentment  still, 
Gay  Fancies  and  rejoicing  Hopes,  that  roll 
Like  fair  stars  o'er  the  shut  lids  of  the  soul. 


THE  SUMMER  EVENING  HYMN.  39 

Welcome!  reliever  of  midsummer  heat! 

A  blessing  waits  upon  thy  bounty  now  : 

Breath,  that  is  bliss,  attends  the  heart's  deep  beat, 

And  fresh  winds  fan  the  dull  and  weary  brow. 

Lo !  how  the  sunset,  in  a  showery  sheet 

Of  rich  light,  waves  along  the  horizon  low, 

While  o'er  yon  isle  its  parting  glories  rest 

Like  Memory's  brightness  in  the  good  man's  breast. 

The  songbird  lifts  its  voice  in  vesper  praise 

And  then  mid  dewy  leaves  seeks  out  its  nest, 

And  flocks  and  herds,  that  sleep  on  burning  days, 

Graze  on  the  clover  now  like  creatures  blest ; 

'T  is  joy  unto  a  heart  that  widely  strays 

O'er  the  dark  sea  of  life  and  hath  no  rest, 

To  blend  its  sympathies  with  all  that  breathe, 

And  unto  woods  and  streams  its  thoughts  bequeathe. 

Along  the  gleaming  brook,  that  purls  and  plays 
Among  the  pebbles  and  o'erarching  roots 
Of  this  old  elm — the  haunt  of  careless  days — 
(Ah!  little  now  their  simple  pleasure  boots  !) 
Let  me  repose  and  with  a  heart  of  praise 
Render  meet  thanks  for  every  joy  that  shoots 
Up  from  the  hedge  of  thorns — the  barren  road — 
Which  year  by  year  my  faltering  feet  have  trod. 

It  is  no  season  for  repining  care, 

And  my  free  spirit  falters  not,  for  yet 

There  is  a  magic  in  the  rosy  air 

And  dewy  earth,  when  summer's  sun  hath  set, 

That  lifteth  up  my  thoughts?  in  silent  prayer, 

Where  human  weakness  or  demurring  let 

Taints  not  the  springs  of  Thought,  whose  secret  home 

Is  in  the  twilight  bowers  of  time  to  come. 

The  changeful  beauty  of  the  sunset  sky 

Fades  softly  o'er  the  blue  of  Alna  bay, 

Like  hallowed  thoughts  of  saints  who  meekly  die, 

Whose  faith  was  true,  whose  deeds  were  just  alway ; 


40  THE   SUMMER  EVENING  HYMN. 

White  clouds,  that  o'er  the  azure  ocean  fly, 
Retain  awhile  the  holy  light  of  day, 
Then  all  is  dimness,  stillness,  soft  repose, 
The  hour  of  love  for  Nightingale  and  Rose. 

Gush,  ye  blue  waters  from  your  fountain  dell ! 
Soar,  ye  dim  mountains  to  the  fading  heaven ! 
The  upland  woods  of  Edgecomb  softly  swell, 
The  Camden  hills,  amid  the  dusky  even, 
Throned  o'er  the  hoary  pilgrim's  holy  well, 
Like  prophets  stand — to  whom  all  worlds  are  given. 
The  pensive  heart,  with  all  the  world  at  rest, 
Sleeps  mid  the  shades  of  its  own  peaceful  breast. 

In  the  deep  woods  of  Damariscotta's  glen, 
Though  rude  yet  holy,  stands  the  ruined  fane, 
Devoted,  in  this  wild  of  warrior  men, 
Ages  ago,  to  GOD!  the  evening  strain, 
The  morning  prayer  and  psalm  rose  grandly  then, 
For  lurking  foes  were  near — a  hideous  train! 
Few,  feeble,  faithful,  there  the  pilgrims  prayed, 
And  holy  be  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  GLADE. 

The  sacred  places  of  the  elder  time 
Retain  no  more  their  everlasting  name, 
But  long  their  memory  shall  be  held  sublime 
Who  for  their  faith  into  the  forest  came, 
Dared  all  the  perils  of  a  cruel  clime, 
And  held  their  holy  freedom  ample  fame ; 
Holier,  a  hut  in  ruins  mid  our  woods 
Than  all  Palmyra's  marble  solitudes. 

The  valley  brook  hath  now  a  mighty  voice, 
The  larch  and  fir  trees  sigh  their  vesper  hymn, 
The  Thousand  Stars  upon  their  thrones  rejoice, 
And  Nature  slumbers  on  her  mountains  dim. 
Far  from  the  throng  of  men  and  city's  noise, 
While  shadows  glimmer  as  they  sink  and  swim, 
My  heart  finds  gladness  in  this  tender  gloom, 
And  deeply  yearneth  for  the  life  to  come. 


THE 


LAST  NIGHT    OF   POMPEII 


A   POEM   IN  THREE   CANTOS. 


CANTO    I  . 


PREFACE. 

THE  cities  of  Herculaneum,  Pompeii,  Retina,  and  Statnae,  with 
many  beautiful  villages,  were  destroyed  by  an  eruption  of  Mount 
Vesuvius,  during  the  first  year  of  the  reign  of  Titus,  on  the  24th  of 
August,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  seventy-nine.  Buried  during  more 
than  seventeen  hundred  years,  even  their  very  names  were  almost  for 
gotten,  when  the  plough  of  a  peasant  struck  upon  the  roof  of  the 
loftiest  and  most  magnificent  mansion  in  Pompeii;  and  the  excava 
tions  of  the  last  fifty  years  have  furnished  the  tourist,  the  antiquarian  j 
the  novelist,  and  the  poet,  with  many  a  subject  of  picturesque  and 
glowing  description.  The  cities  of  the  dead  have  not  wanted  fre 
quent  and  often  faithful  historians;  every  disinterred  temple,  amphi- 
theatre,  statue,  pillar,  tomb,  and  painting  has  found  admirers.  It 
was  expedient,  therefore,  to  throw  action  into  a  picture  at  all  times 
impressive,  and  to  delineate,  without  flattery,  those  existing  manners, 
customs,  and  morals,  which,  sanctioned  as  they  were,  not  only  by 
usage,  but  by  legislators  and  the  priesthood,  can  leave  little  regret 
and  less  astonishment  at  the  terrible  overthrow  of  cities  as  excessive 
and  not  so  venial  in  their  crimes  as  Gomorrah. 

The  founders  of  Rome,  like  the  Pelasgi  of  Greece,  were  outlawed 
fugitives  from  almost  every  nation — the  very  seminoles  of  the  world. 
Their  earliest  laws,  discipline,  science,  and  literature  were  all  created 
by  habitual  war.  Political  ascendancy,  acquired  by  remorseless  mili 
tary  skill,  was  with  each  the  highest  good ;  and  hence,  though  less 
capricious  and  somewhat  more  grateful  than  the  Athenians,  there 
never  was  a  period  in  Rome  when  the  people,  after  long  suffering, 
exacted  their  rights,  without  incurring  the  vengeance  of  the  patricians. 
The  aristocracy  held  the  supreme  power ;  in  their  esteem  the  com 
monalty  were  vassals  of  the  soil.  To  resist  these  arrogated  privil 
eges,  the  tribunes  instigated  factions,  and  the  venerable  Forum  be 
came  the  arena  of  revolt,  conspiracy,  and  blood.  The  very  senators 
ascended  the  rostrum  spotted  with  gore.  Liberty  was  defined  by 


44  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

philosophers,  developed  by  rhetorical  declaimers,  and  adored  in  the 
fictions  of  poesy,  but  it  was  never  enjoyed.  There  were  grandeur, 
vastdominions,  empires  in  bondage,  triumphal  processions,  unrivalled 
wealth,  magnificent  prodigality  and  profligacy,  but  no  just  freedom. 
Roman  citizenship  was  national  pride,  not  individual  prerogative. — > 
The  ignorant  cannot  govern,  though  they  may  tyrannize  ;  and  ancient 
sages  and  priests  were  too  wise  to  instruct  the  multitude,  though  they 
valued  uninitiated  sectaries ;  for  communicated  knowledge  would  su 
persede  the  lucrative  occupations  and  mysterious  powers  of  their  suc 
cessors. 

Csesar  rose  upon  the  ruins  of  the  consulship  as  that  had  risen 
upon  the  decemvirate.  Authority  now  became  personal,  concentrat 
ed  and  unappealable,  but  otherwise  there  was  little  change.  The 
Senate  had  long  been  the  mere  market  of  ambition ;  the  people  were 
mercenaries  or  serfs  ;  the  consuls  were  colluders  of  some  faction,  per 
petually  renewed,  or  its  obedient  slaves  ;  and  the  victorious  comman 
der  of  the  legions,  long  the  arbiter  of  the  Roman  destinies,  on  the 
field  of  Pharsalia,  merely  decorated  imperial  power  with  a  diadem. 

Titus  was  the  tenth  emperor,  and  doubtless  a  just  man  ;  but  the 
epithets  of  exaggerated  praise  bestowed  upon  him  sufficiently  indi 
cate  the  character  of,  at  least,  seven  of  his  predecessors  ;  and  his  own 
brief  reign,  which  was  terminated  by  the  poison  of  his  inhuman  bro 
ther  Domitian,  demonstrates  the  morals,  humanity,  and  courage  of 
the  age.  Therefore,  in  the  picture  I  have  attempted  to  draw,  I  have 
not  been  intimidated  by  the  victories,  arts,  literature  or  mythology  of 
the  Romans,  but  have  desired  to  paint  with  fidelity  the  universal  li 
centiousness,  which,  having  infected  every  heart,  left  the  battlements 
of  the  Eternal  City  ready  to  fall  before  the  barbarian  avenger. 

Every  province  of  the  vast  empire  rivalled  the  imperial  capital, 
and  almost  every  proconsul  imitated — sometimes  even  exceeded-^ 
the  despotism  and  debaucheries  of  Caligula  and  Heliogabalus.  The 
union  of  civil  and  military  power,  while  it  concentrated  the  energies 
of  government,  conferred  upon  the  provincial  commander  an  irrespon 
sible  authority,  against  which  it  was  folly  to  remonstrate,  and  mad 
ness  to  rebel.  The  fathers  of  Rome  were  too  corrupt  to  investigate 
the  sources  of  their  revenue  or  the  characters  of  its  gatherers ;  and  too 
indolent  in  patrician  profligacy  to  execute  any  edicts,  except  such  as 
suited  their  own  haughty  yet  grovelling  passions.  The  fountain  being 
thus  contaminated,  its  thousand  streams  distributed  corruption  over 
the  whole  empire;  and  all,  who  drank  its  waters,  partook  the  charac 
ter  of  them  who  watched  beside  the  wellspring.  Few  of  those,  who 


CANTO    I.  45 

wore  the  Roman  crown,  died  by  the  ordinance  of  nature  ;  the  Preeto- 
rians,  like  the  modern  Janizaries  and  Strelitzes,  obeyed  the  decisions 
of  their  turbulent  prefects  ;  and  what  a  Sejanus  failed  to  accomplish 
for  himself,  a  more  politic  Macro  effected  for  another,  through  whom 
he  ruled  everything  but  that  imperial  folly  which  ended  in  assassi 
nation.  Yet  sanguinary  as  was  the  ascent,  unhappy  the  possession, 
and  quick  the  downfall  of  power,  the  governors  of  the  provinces  were 
less  implicated  in  the  royal  revolutions  than  almost  any  men  in  Rome. 
While  the  Quaestor  of  the  Palatine  discovered  no  defalcation  of  the 
revenue,  and  no  rumour  of  sedition  reached  the  Senate,  the  procon 
sul  remained  in  his  lucrative  government  during  pleasure ;  and  none 
of  all  the  Conscript  Fathers  deemed  it  expedient  to  examine  the  con 
dition  of  the  country  over  which  he  swayed  his  iron  rod. 


THE     ARGUMENT* 

An  Italian  Sunset.  Evening  in  the  Apennines.  Hymn  of  the  Ves* 
tal.  Introduction  of  Pansa,  a  Roman  Decurion  converted  to  Chris 
tianity,  and  Mariamne,  a  captive  Jewess,  also  a  convert.  Fore 
bodings  of  the  destruction.  A  picture  of  Pompeii  and  of  Jerusa 
lem  in  ruins.  The  Forum  of  Pompeii ;  the  manners  and  morals  of 
Campania  pourtrayed.  Diomede,  the  prsetor.  The  night  storm. 
Vesuvius  threatening.  Dialogue  of  Pansa  and  Mariamne.  The 
midnight  Prayer.  The  comet  rushing  amidst  the  shattered  clouds 
of  the  tempest.  Mariamne  relates  her  interview  with  St  Paul, 
and  Pansa  describes  the  martyrdom  of  the  great  Apostle,  which  he 
is  supposed  to  have  witnessed.  Pansa  and  Mariamne  seized  in  the 
cavern  of  Vesuvius  by  the  emissaries  of  the  praetor,  and  dragged  se 
parately  away  to  suffer  the  vengeance  which  pagan  hatred  inflicted 
on  Christian  fortitude  and  fidelity. 


MID  mellow  folds  of  gorgeous  purple  clouds, 
The  flowered  pavilions  of  the  spirit  winds, 
That  danced  in  music  to  the  Ausonian  breeze, 
Along  the  deep  blue  vault  of  Italy, 
Like  a  descending  god  of  Fable's  creed, 
(Titan  in  ancient  dreams,  whose  faintest  smile 


46  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

Elysian  splendours  breathed  through  ocean's  realm,) 

Casting  aside  earth's  throbbing  dust,  to  put 

His  diadem  of  deathless  glory  on, 

The  sun  went  slowly  down  the  Apennines. 

Far  up  the  living  dome  of  heaven,  the  clouds, 

Pearling  the  azure,  like  a  seraph's  robe, 

Wreathed  o'er  the  blessed  and  beaming  face  of  heaven, 

And  glanced,  mid  blush  and  shadow,  o'er  the  sky, 

Full  of  the  gentle  spirit  of  the  air, 

The  mediator  of  the  elements. 

As  if  imbued  with  virgin  thought,  the  leaves 

Smiled  in  their  love  and  tenderness  ;  sweet  airs 

Sighed  o'er  the  summer  earth,  their  music,  soft 

As  hymns  of  heaven  o'er  spirits  disenthralled; 

And  odours  rose  from  vale  and  hillside  green 

Like  the  incense  of  a  heart  earth  ne'er  can  soiL 

The  hills  cast  giant  shadows,  in  whose  depth 

Wild  jagged  rocks  and  solitary  floods, 

And  forests  gnarl'd  and  hoar,  looking  deep  awe, 

Like  the  vast  deserts  of  a  dream,  replied 

To  voices  of  unresting  phantoms,  there, 

Till  daydawn,  wrapt  in  dark  sublimities. 

On  the  fair  shores  and  seaworn  promontories, 

Where  many  a  Doric  palace,  in  its  pride 

And  hoary  grandeur,  hung  above  the  lapse 

Of  twilight  waters  whispering  vesper  songs 

And  matin  anthems,  childlike  slumbered  now, 

In  speechless  beauty,  the  last  light ;  afar, 

The  avalanche  in  the  ravine  glimmered  back 

The  trembling  and  most  transitory  glow ; 

The  beaked  and  burnished  galleys  on  the  wave 

With  quivering  banners  hung,  and  gay  triremes 

Passed  by  each  isle  and  headland  like  the  shade 

Of  Enna's  idol  through  the  realm  of  Dis. 

All  nature,  in  her  holy  hour  of  love, 

Lifted  in  rapture  the  heart's  vesper  prayer ; 

The  prayer,  which  purer  hearts  in  every  age 

Uplift  when  Time  or  Grief  casts  over  earth 

The  shadow  of  the  tomb,  and  fills  the  soul 

With  influences  of  a  happier  world. 

And  from  Pompeii's  Field  of  Tombs  the  voice 


CANTO    I.  47 


Of  Vesta's  priestess,  o'er  Love's  sepulchre 
Bending  beneath  the  holy  Heaven,  sent  up 
The  anguish  of  bereavement,  and  the  doubts 
Of  an  immortal  mind,  that  knew  not  yet 
Its  immortality,  yet  seeking  Faith, 
And  sighing  o'er  the  pomp  of  paynim  rites. 

THE 

.Zephyr  of  Twilight!  thine  ethereal  breath, 

With  spirit  strains,  steals  through  elysian  groves: 

Bringst  thou  no  memories  from  the  home  of  death? 
No  whispered  yearnings  from  departed  loves  ? 

Fann'd  not  thy  wing,  ere  stars  above  thee  glowed, 
The  pure,  pale  brow  that  on  my  birthhour  smiled? 

And  bearst  thou  not  from  Destiny's  abode 
One  kiss  from  mother  to  her  vestal  child  ? 

Cold  sleep  the  ashes  of  the  heart  that  breathed 
But  for  my  bliss — when  being's  suns  were  few ; 

And  hath  the  spirit  no  bright  hope  bequeathed  ? 
Oh !  must  it  drink  the  grave's  eternal  dew  ? 

Hesper  !  the  beauty  of  thy  virgin  light 

Blossoms  along  the  blue  of  yon  sweet  sky ; 

Yet  vain  my  heart  soars — from  the  deep  of  night 
No  voice  or  vision  thrills  my  ear  or  eye. 

From  Vesta's  vigil  shrine  no  light  ascends 

Beyond  this  realm  of  sin,  doubt,  grief,  and  death  ; 

Reveals  no  heaven  where  meet  immortal  friends, 
Shadows  no  being  victor  over  breath  ! 

Around  the  throne  of  Angerona  lie, 

Buried  in  darkness,  all  the  hopes  of  Time  ; 

Dreams,  auguries,  oracles  beyond  the  sky 

Predict  no  Future  filled  with  thought  sublime. 

What  realm  mysterious,  wrapt  in  loneliest  gloom, 
Lives,  Oh,  my  mother !  in  thy  love's  sweet  light  ? 


48  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

Whither,  upsoaring  from  Earth's  prison  tomb, 
Wanders  thy  spirit  on  the  shores  of  night  ? 

Sunlight  and  fragrance,  dewbeam  and  still  eve 
Shed  not  their  bliss  and  beauty  on  thine  urn ! 

Has  Earth  no  hope  time  never  can  bereave? 
No  power  again  to  bid  the  pale  dust  burn? 

The  rippling  rills,  the  radiant  morns,  the  flowers, 
Bursting  in  beauty,  showers  of  iris  hues, 

Starlight  and  Love — the  Graces  and  the  Hours — 
Each — all  must  vanish  like  the  twilight  dews ! 

Budding  to  wither — lingering  to  impart 

Life's  hopeless  pangs  when  thought  shall  sink  in  gloom- 
Can  all  earth's  beauties  soothe  the  shuddering  heart? 

Or  e'en  the  Thunderer's  eye  illume  the  tomb  ? 

Alone,  and  in  her  soul  bewildered,  to  her  shrine 
Of  old  accustomed  worship  slowly  passed 
The  solitary  seeker  after  Truth. 
And  now  from  mountain  tents  'mid  ilex  woods, 
Or  gay  pavilions  in  Campanian  vales, 
Wandered,  on  twilight  airs,  through  clustering  vines, 
The  cithern's  music,  and  the  lute's  soft  strain 
Echoed  the  spirit  of  love's  melody. 
Tke  hills  seemed  living  with  delight,  and  there, 
As  summer's  burning  solstice  felt  the  breath 
Of  gentlest  Autumn,  had  the  wise  and  gay 
Retired  to  revel  or  to  meditate, 
In  fellowship  or  loneliness,  and  seek 
Felicity  or  wisdom  from  the  woods ; 
And  there  the  dreams  of  Arcady — high  thoughts, 
That,  in  the  elder  days,  inspired  the  soul 
Of  sage  or  poet  with  revealments  caught 
From  heaven,  that  clothed  all  earth  with  light,  became 
The  blest  companions  of  the  pure  in  heart. 

The  gorgeous  radiance  of  the  sunset  fled 
Like  young  Love's  visions  or  the  arrow's  plume, 
O'er  the  dim  isles  and  sea  of  Italy, 


CANTO    I.  49 

'Mid  the  dark  foliage  mingling  like  the  hopes 

Of  morn  with  night-fears,  when  Thought's  shadows  blend 

With  beautiful  existences  beyond 

The  mockery  and  the  madness  of  this  life. 

In  glimmering  grandeur  lay  the  glorious  sea, 

Whose  waters  wafted  spoils  from  orient  realms, 

And  mirrored  Nature's  beauty,  while  dread  war 

Bathed  Punic  banners  in  the  gore  of  Rome. 

The  Evening  Isles  of  love  and  loveliness 

Slept  in  the  soothing  solitude,  wherein 

The  awful  intellect  of  Rome  sought  peace 

In  grey  philosophy,  while  faction  drenched 

The  earth  with  blood,  and  dark  conspirators 

Walked  the  thronged  Forum,  dooming,  at  a  glance, 

The  loftiest  to  extinction  ;  here  the  bard 

Unfolded  earth's  and  heaven's  mysteries, 

Creating  the  world's  creed,  and  Fiction's  brow 

Wreathing  with  the  immortal  buds  of  truth. 

Among  the  sanctities  of  groves  and  streams, 

The  worn  and  wearied  bosom  breathed  again 

Its  birthright  bliss,  and  wisdom,  born  of  woe, 

Uttered  its  oracles  to  coming  years ; 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  that  thrills  and  charms, 

Weds  beauty  unto  grandeur,  earth  to  heaven, 

Here  tyrant  crime  achieved,  by  nameless  deeds, 

The  world's  redemption  from  remorseless  guilt.* 

Bland  airs  flew  o'er  the  faded  heavens,  and  streams, 
That  in  the  noonday  dazzled,  and  e'en  now 
Drank  the  rich  hues  of  eventide,  purled  on 
With  lovelier  music,  and  the  green  still  shores 
Looked  up  to  the  blue  mountains  with  the  face — 
The  cherub  face  of  sinless  infancy — 
With  hope  and  joy  perpetual  in  that  look ; 
For,  'mid  all  changes,  still  the  faded  bloom 
Shall  be  renewed — the  slumbering  heart  revived. 
The  pearly  moonlight  streamed  through  softest  clouds 
With  an  ethereal  lustre ;  and  the  stars, 
The  dread  sabaoth  of  the  unbounded  air, 

•The  ineffable  enormities  of  Tiberius  while  he  lived,  amid  massacre  and  debauchery,  at  Capri,  start 
led  even  the  degraded  Romans  into  a  sense  of  shame  as  well  as  fear. 

7 


50  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII, 

From  the  blue  depths  between  the  snowy  drifts, 
Gleamed  like  the  eyes  of  holiest  seraphim. 

Beneath  the  dying  glories  of  the  day, 
And  the  unspeakable  .beauty  of  the  night, 
Yet  in  the  haunt  of  peril,  looking  o'er 
Pompeii's  domes — two  Forms  in  silence  stood, 
Pale,  yet  unfaltering — famished,  yet  in  soul, 
Fed  from  the  altar  of  the  ATONER'S  love. 
One — a  tried  warrior  by  his  eye  and  brow 
And  dauntless  port — leaned  on  the  shattered  ledge 
Of  a  Vesuvian  cavern,  o'er  which  trailed 
Dark  matted  vines  and  cedars  thickly  hung, 
Hoar,  hideous,  wedged  in  rocks,  and  fleckering  o'er 
The  jagged  vestibule  with  living  gloom, 
And  shutting  from  the  inner  vault,  where  slept 
The  banned  and  hunted  Nazarenes,  all  beams 
That  on  the  outward  world  shed  life  and  love. 
With  dark  eyes  lifted  to  his  troubled  face, 
Her  head  upon  his  bosom,  half  reclined 
A  Hebrew  Captive,  dragged  amid  the  spoils 
Of  holiest  Moriah,  when  the  hour 
Of  Desolation  fell  on  Zion's  towers, 
To  swell  the  victor's  wild  array,  and  add 
Another  cup  of  vengeance  and  despair 
To  the  death  banquet  of  world- wasting  Rome. 
There,  amid  Volcan's  wrecks  and  the  wild  gloom 
Of  Nature's  loneliest  and  most  fearful  scenes, 
The  wedded  Christians  dwelt  in  Love's  own  heaven; 
There  Mariamne  clung  to  Pansa's  breast, 
Fearing  no  fate  she  e'er  might  share  with  him. 
The  melancholy  loveliness  of  Love, 
That  dares  the  voiceless  desert  and  inspires 
The  forest  solitude,  around  her  hung 
Like  wreathing  clouds  around  an  angel's  form ; 
On  her  pale  brow  the  very  soul  of  faith 
Rested  as  on  its  shrine;  and  earth's  vain  pride 
Ne'er  found  a  home  within  the  chastened  heart 
Which  burned  and  breathed  Love's  immortality. 
Like  her,  the  sun-clothed  vision,  in  whose  crown 
Gleamed  the  twelve  orbs  of  glory  as  she  stood 


CANTO    I.  51 

Amid  the  floating  moon's  young  shadowy  light, 

When  to  the  earth  the  giant  Dragon  cast 

The  stars,  triumphing  o'er  his  spoil ;  so,  'mid  grief, 

And  want,  and  loneliness,  and  danger,  stood 

The  Daughter  of  the  East,  in  every  woe 

Fearless,  in  every  peril  quick  in  thought. 

Thoughts,  winnowed  from  the  gross  and  grovelling  dust 

Of  earth,  and  glistening  with  the  hues  of  heaven, 

Passed  o'er  their  mingled  spirits  in  the  depth 

Of  the  hoar  Apennines,*  and  thus  he  spake — 

The  Roman  warrior,  who  had  made  his  home, 

In  earlier  days,  ere  Truth  had  pierced  his  heart, 

On  tented  battlefield — whose  joy  had  been 

The  spoil  of  nations  gasping  on  the  waste 

Of  conquest ;  but  amid  the  flames  and  shrieks 

Of  Solyma,  he  heard  the  Voice  that  fills 

Infinity,  with  awe  ineffable, 

And  worshipped  'mid  the  scorn  of  pagan  bands. 

Relentless  as  the  edict  he  obeyed, 

His  dauntless  soul  \vith  war's  own  wrath  had  burned, 

And  in  the  Triumph's  madness,  mocked  the  moans 

Of  fallen  freemen,  as  his  fellows  did, 

The  Legions  of  the  Loveless  ;  but  the  Faith, 

Whose  FOUNDER  wept  the  doom  which  guilt  had  wrought, 

Sunk  on  his  bosom,  as  the  sunset  sinks 

Upon  the  wild  and  savage  mountain  peak, 

Clothing  its  barrenness  with  beauty  ! — Thus 

His  saddened  but  serene  mind  communed  now. 

"Oh,  the  still,  sacred,  soothing  light  that  bathes 

The  blue,  world-studded  heavens — while  the  air 

Gushes  in  living  music,  and  inspires 

The  purified  and  thrilled  spirit  with  the  power 

To  cast  aside  the  thrall  of  flesh  and  soar 

To  converse  with  the  seraphim,  and  prayer 

Beneath  His  throne  \vhose  death-groan  rent  all  earth! 

Men's  madness  comes  not  here — it  cannot  dwell 

Within  the  bosom's  temple  that  imbibes 

The  oracles  of  Truth  in  every  breeze. 

Thou  need'st  not,  Love  !  thy  tephilimf  to  lift 

*  I  have  represented  Mount  Vesuvius  throughout  the  poem  a«  a  portion  of  the  Campanian  Hills, 
f  Charms  in  Hebrew  and  pagan  worship,  the  tricks  of  jugglers  and  imaginary  protections  againet  evO 
spirits  and  earthly  calamities. 


52  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF   POMPEII. 

Thy  thoughts  within  the  vail,  nor  seek  I  more 

The  prestiges  of  augurs  to  impart 

The  destined  future,  nor  vain  amulets 

To  guard  what  HE,  who  gave,  can  well  preserve. 

Look,  Mariamne!  on  the  dimpled  sea, 

That  slumbers  like  the  jasper  waters  seen 

In  the  apocalypse  of  Patmos,  hang 

The  crowding  sails  of  merchant  barks  delayed, 

The  altars  at  their  prows  casting  pale  gleams, 

While  by  the  dagon  deities  of  earth. 

The  terrible  apotheoses,  wrought 

From  desolating  passions,  vainly  now 

The  mariners  invoke  the  gale  to  bear 

Barbaric  treasures  to  the  imperial  mart ; 

But  lo  !  nor  leaf  nor  flower  the  pearl-dew  stirs 

By  Twilight  wept  o'er  forest,  in  reply  !" 

Wrapt  by  the  charm  and  majesty — the  bloom, 
Verdure  and  stillness  of  the  world  and  skies — 
Yet  looking  far  beyond  them,  thus  replied 
The  High  Priest's  banished  child  unto  the  thought 
Of  the  baptized  and  scorned  Decurion. 
"Methinks,  my  Pansa  !  that  in  evil  times, 
The  soul  becomes  a  prophet  to  itself, 
And,  like  the  seer  before  the  unholy  king, 
Predicts  the  woe  it  shudders  to  conceive. 
The  shadows  of  the  hoar  and  giant  woods, 
The  sea's  unearthly  gleam,  and  hollow  voice, 
All  the  unlimited  heaven,  where  phantom  shapes 
Glimmer  amid  the  void  immensity, 
And  meteors  madly  rush  through  shoreless  space, 
In  awful  silence,  o'er  the  universe 
Throned  like  Death's  Angel,  sink  upon  my  soul, 
With  an  unwonted  dread,  and  throng  my  brain 
Like  breathless  ministries  of  doom.     Among 
The  rifted  ruins  of  the  Volcan's  wrath, 
Scoriae  and  dusky  foliage  scorched  and  sear, 
The  pale  green  moss,  thick  shrubs  and  mazy  vines 
Of  these  dark  rocks,  a  spirit  seems  to  breathe 
Wild  revelations  of  a  fiery  doom. 
Like  the  mysterious  and  unvoiced  NAME, 


CANTO    I.  53 

Upon  the  white  gem  written,  which  none  beheld 
But  the  anointed,  fearful  characters 
Seem  to  my  startled  vision  forming1  now 
Among  yon  dense  and  fire-winged  thunderclouds, 
Whose  dusky  peaks  ascend  above  the  hills  ; 
And,  lo  !  with  what  a  brow  of  majesty 
Vesuvius,  through  the  bland  transparent  air, 
And  pallid  moonlight,  o'er  our  vigil  bends  ! 
Dwells  there  not  terror  in  earth's  breathlessness  ? 
And  peril  in  the  slumber  of  the  Mount  ?" 

Sadly  the  Roman  turned  his  gaze  below 
Upon  the  fated  city,  gleaming  now 
With  countless  lights  o'er  pageantries  and  feasts, 
That  flared  in  mockery  of  the  hallowed  heaven, 
Then  thus  to  Mariamne's  fear  replied  : 
"The  happy  deem  not  so — discern  not  ought 
Beyond  the  wanton  luxuries  of  Time : 
For,  knowing  not  the  evil,  which,  (as  clouds 
Impart  a  lovelier  glory  to  the  skies,) 
Invests  all  good  with  loftier  attributes, 
They  fear  not  JUSTICE  which  they  never  knew. 
Behold  Pompeii's  gorgeous  luxuries — 
The  maskings,  orgies,  agonalia  now 
Madly  triumphing  o'er  her  lava  streets  ! 
Her  frescoed  palaces  and  sculptured  domes 
Flash  back  the  torchlights  of  licentious  throngs, 
And  countless  chariots,  rivaling  their  God 
Of  Morn,  are  hurled  along  the  trembling  side 
Of  this  most  awful  Mount,  as  if  the  fire 
Had  never  wreathed  to  heaven  and  poured  o'er  earth 
In  bloodred  torrents  !  By  the  Nola  gate, 
Towers  the  proud  temple  of  the  Idol,  first 
Made  and  adored  by  earth's  first  Rebel — him 
Called  Belus,  and  exalted  to  a  God 
By  the  debased  and  impious  sons  of  Ham. 
There  Parian  columns  and  Mosaic  floors, 
And  golden  shrines  and  lavers  and  proud  forms 
Wrought  by  Praxiteles  with  godlike  skill, 
And  pictures  glowing  with  unshadowed  charms 
To  tempt,  or  mythologic  pomp  to  awe 


54  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

The  enthusiast  and  the  sceptic,  can  attest 

Idolatry's  magnificence.     Within, 

The  secret  stair — the  victim,  whose  wild  shrieks 

Are  oracles — the  flamen  o'er  his  wine 

Or  darker  deeds  of  sacrilege,  while  throngs 

Of  blind  adorers  in  Fear's  madness  bend 

And  pile  first  fruits  and  gold  around  her  shrine — 

These  are  the  illusions  and  the  destinies 

Of  Isis,  and  her  earthborn  vassals,  love  ! 

Feargotten  phantoms  triumph  there  ;  and  all 

Impurities  exult  in  their  excess. 

The  rites  of  Thamuz  and  Astarte  blend, — 

Union  unhallowed  !  and  cast  o'er  the  heart 

Darkness  and  desolation  and  despair. 

What  recks  the  augur  of  his  auguries  ? 

The  aruspices,  of  portents  ?  or  the  priests 

Of  Egypt's  Isis,  of  their  oracles  ? 

Think  they  of  aspects  men  believe  they  rule  ? 

Dream  they  of  perils  in  their  revelry  ? 

Know  they  the  GOD  whose  least  respected  works 

They  mock,  as  deities,  by  all  excess 

Loathsome  and  nameless  to  the  human  ear?" 

Thought  hurried  fast  through  Mariamne's  soul, 
And  on  her  brow  the  mighty  spirit  burned 
Of  the  JudaBan  dynasties,  while  thus 
She  poured  the  passion  of  her  wrecked  heart  forth 
"The  destined  hour  of  justice  and  despair, 
When  they  shall  gather  wisdom,  flings  its  shade 
Upon  the  dial  of  the  conqueror's  doom. 
Said  not  the  Christ  from  the  bright  Olive  Mount, 
Looking  upon  the  temple  in  its  pride, 
And  glorious  beauty,  that  the  Holy  Place 
Should  be  defiled — the  city  trampled — all 
Its  princely  dwellers  captive,  slain,  or  strewn 
Like  sear  leaves  o'er  the  unreceiving  world, 
Or  scorned  for  uttering  creeds  the  torture  taught  ? 
And  not  one  stone  upon  another  left 
To  mark  where  once  Earth's  Sanctuary  stood  ? 
Alas !  she  sleeps  in  desolation's  arms, 
The  city  of  my  childhood,  and  not  one 


CANTO    I.  55 

Of  all  the  pleasant  haunts,  the  palmgrove  plain 

Of  Sharon,  and  Siloa's  holy  fount, 

And  Lebanon's  pavillioned  wood — which  Love, 

At  daydawn  and  the  twilight,  sanctified, 

Is  left  amid  the  ruins  of  my  home ! 

But,  Pansa  !  thou  my  home  and  temple  art, 

And  the  ATONER,  whom  my  people  slew, 

The  GOD  of  this  wrecked  heart — wrecked  when  it  felt 

Its  father  slain,  its  race  to  bondage  sold 

Beneath  the  patriarch's  Terebinth  !  alas  ! 

That  bigot  faction — pride  unquenched  by  woe — 

And  thanklessness  and  treachery  and  wrath, 

Perpetuated  by  all  punishment, 

And  more  than  either,  the  one  awful  crime 

That  ne'er  shall  be  forgiven,  till  the  faith 

That  mocked  and  shall  mock,  ages  hence  the  same. 

Without  a  country,  law,  chief,  priest  and  home, 

They  were,  in  glory,  with  them  all — shall  fill 

Their  dark  and  desolated  minds  with  light — 

Alas  !  these  led  the  Romans  to  the  spoil, 

And  allied  with  his  bands  to  our  despair ! 

— But  I  do  grieve  thee,  love  !  by  selfish  plaint, 

And  shut  my  soul  from  knowledge  of  the  rites 

And  ministrations  of  thy  monarch  race. 

Power  and  impunity  with  them,  as  all, 

Forestall,  I  dread,  their  doom ;  but  yet  once  more, 

As  we  behold  Campania's  loveliest  realm 

Unfolded  far  beneath  us,  let  me  learn 

The  polity  and  faith  of  Italy. 

Yon  Dome,  that  now  in  dusky  grandeur  soars 

O'er  all  Pompeii's  fanes  and  palaces  ?" 

"  Was  once,"  said  Pansa,  with  a  Roman's  pride 
And  grief,  "ere  Freedom  perished,  and  the  car 
Of  conquest  bore  the  tyrant  to  his  throne, 
The  venerated  home  of  Human  Right, 
Liberty's  temple,  where  the  tribune's  voice 
Forbade  the  consul's  edict,  and  the  least, 
Unworthiest  citizen  of  Rome's  great  realm 
Saw  himself  honoured  as  a  son  of  Rome. 
Now,  beautified  by  Parian  colonnades, 


56  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

And  jetting  fountains  and  immortal  busts 

Of  Rome's  immortal  mind,  when  power,  conferred 

In  peril,  was  resigned  in  safety's  arms  ; 

Now,  'mid  Mosaic  corridors  and  halls, 

And  princely  trophies,  from  the  spoils  of  Greece, 

Of  Zeuxis  and  Apelles,  and  the  forms 

Of  Phidias,  warrior  statues,  giant  steeds, 

And  consuls  stern  in  look,  austere  in  life, 

Dispensing  bondage  from  the  Capitol, 

Or  tributary  diadems  to  earth — 

Now,  o'er  this  pomp  of  intellect  and  might, 

The  serpent  spirit  of  a  helot  race, 

Licking  the  dust  of  purple  tyranny, 

And  crushing  thought  that  dares  be  fetterless, 

Through  the  mind's  ruin,  fraught  with  venom,  glides. 

Behold  yon  pillared  ranges  to  the  east ! 

(A  sceptered  figure  overtops  the  dome, 

Her  brazen  scales  are  superfluities — ) 

In  the  Ausonian  days  ere  heaven  revoked 

Its  holiest  gifts  to  man  ;  ere  granite  gods, 

Sphynxes,  cabiri,*  apes  and  crocodiles 

Became  corrupted  nature's  deities, 

There  reigned  Astnea,  bright  Aurora's  child, 

The  Titan's  seraph — gentle  e'en  to  crime, 

Radiant  in  beauty  to  the  Good  ;  the  clouds 

Of  passion  never  darkened  her  sweet  brow, 

Revenge  and  hate  and  venal  compact  ne'er 

Confronted  her  calm  look  of  sanctity. 

Then  the  Basilicas  were  temples  meet 

For  prayer  and  hymn  to  the  Divinity, 

And  Majesty  and  wisdom,  peace  and  love 

Dwelt  with  a  sad  yet  just  humanity. 

Alas,  for  the  brief  vision  !  and  alas 

For  the  world's  madness  !  giant  Evil  rushed 

Through  wrecked  hearts  and  crushed  spirits,  and  o'erspread 

All  realms  ;  and  casting  earth's  stain  from  her  wings, 

The  goddess  rose  to  the  elysian  throne 

She  left  to  meet  derision  and  despair. 

Then  grovelling  men  groped  through  the  dens  of  guilt, 

*  Mysterious  demigods  of  Eg\  pt  and  Samotlirace. 


CANTO    I.  57 

Blaspheming  and  infuriate  with  crime, 
The  agonies  of  guilt  without  its  shame, 
Remorselessness  and  misery,  to  their  home — 
The  sepulchre,  their  sons  built  to  defile. 
Thus  felt,  though  feigning,  pagan  Rome's  best  minds  : 
And  since  the  fated  hour  when  faction  raised 
The  tyrant's  banner  and  the  Caesar's  blood 
Poured  o'er  his  rival's  pillar,  none  have  stayed 
The  fiery  deluge  of  unpunished  wrong. 
The  Ambracian  waters*  were  not  deeper  dyed 
Than  judgment  in  yon  courts  ;  there's  not  a  stone, 
That  bears  not  witness  to  man's  wrong  and  woe, 
Injustice,  calumny  and  death  ;  wrung  tears 
Have  stained  the  Praetor's  seat  of  perfidy ; 
And  sighs  unsolaced  through  the  long  arcades 
Echoed  like  voices  of  accusing  ghosts ; 
And  hopeless  shrieks  ascended  from  the  cells 
Beneath  the  dark  tribunal,,  where  the  will 
Of  one  that  cannot  be  arraigned,  dooms  all 
To  lingering  anguish  or  unwitnessed  death. 
Alas,  my  Mariamne  !  while  I  gaze 
On  those  dread  mansions,  burning  terrors  thrill 
My  heart,  lest  this  dark,  dripping  mountain  vault, 
The  home  of  fear  arid  famine,  where  we  wake 
Gasping  amid  the  sulphur  fumes  and  blind 
With  the  volcano's  gory  glare,  and  awed 
By  the  earthquake's  shudder  and  the  mountain's  roar— 
Lest  even  this  should  be  no  refuge,  love ! 
And  fail  to  shield  us  from  the  felon  clutch 
Of  Diomede's  apparitors  !f  forefend, 
O  Heaven  !  the  hour  of  our  betrayal !  once 
My  stricken  and  stunned  soul  beheld  the  death — 
Let  us  within,  my  love  !  my  heart  misgives 
E'en  while  it  images  the  wanton  power, 

*  The  battle  of  Actium,  fought  upon  the  Ambracian  gulf,  forever  decided  the  fate  of  Roman  liberty. 
The  glory  of  Octavius  Ctesar  rose  from  the  blood  of  that  fearful  day,  and  most  fearfully  did  it  glow  till 
barbarian  retribution  made  Italy's  charms  a  curse. 

1 1  have  appropriated  to  the  Chief  Ruler  of  Pompeii,  the  name  of  its  wealthiest  citizen.  It  has  been 
asserted,  by  some,  that  he  was  only  a  freedman ;  yet  the  Emperors  seldom  hesitated  to  confer  their 
judicial  or  fiscal  offices  upon  any  who  scrupled  not  to  embrace  the  most  oppressive  means  in  the  irre 
sponsible  administration  of  power.  His  character,  therefore,  a?  I  have  attempted  to  depict  it,  would 
synchronize  with  the  condition  of  the  age  and  the  avowed  crimes  of  Pompeii.  Jlpparitors  were  officers 
of  justice  or  injustice— bailiffs— so  called  from  their  suddenly  appearing  when  undesired. 


58  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

The  gnawing  avarice,  the  bigot  pride, 

And  pagan  hate,  the  maddening  lusts  of  him, 

Whose  sire — (and  ne'er  had  father  truer  son) 

Sejanus  taught,  Tiberius  trusted  in, 

Caligula  exalted ;  Nero  loved 

This  subtle,  quick  Sicilian,  and  all  since 

Upon  the  imperial  throne  have  left  in  place 

Pompeii's  Pnetor — for  his  heart  feels  not ! 

Honoured  by  these,  what  have  not  we  to  fear  ? 

His  minion's  glance  is  ruin  unto  both  ! 

My  life,  his  prey,  thy  beauty — stand  not  so, 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  precipice ! 

His  seekers  are  abroad — the  assassin  games 

Of  yon  vast  amphitheatre  will  feast, 

Erelong,  the  merciless  idolaters  ! 

Enter  the  cavern,  Mariamne  !  hark  ! 

Torn  lichens  fall  from  the  steep  rocks  o'erhead — 

A  sandal  hath  dislodged  them — yet  no  eye 

Of  mortal  may  discern  us  from  the  crag 

That  beetles  there — again  !  I  hear  the  fall 

Of  guarded  steps — so,  softly,  love  !  within  !" 

Darkness  around  the  rugged  crypt— (wherein 
The  pard  had  sorted  with  the  serpent,  ere 
The  Roman  Convert  made  his  home  there,  sought 
By  the  fierce  demon  of  the  idol  faith)  — 
Floated  in  wreaths,  and  round  the  jutting  rocks, 
Whence  trickled  the  hill  fountains,  drop  by  drop, 
Mocking  the  pulses  of  each  lingering  hour, 
Hung  in  its  home  of  centuries ;  but  now 
Gloom  e'en  more  terrible  from  thunder  clouds 
Rushed  on  the  tempest's  wings  o'er  every  star 
Of  bright  blue  ether,  and  o'er  laughing  earth, 
(Breathed  on  by  Zephyr  from  his  vesper  throne, 
Late  when  the  Oreads  danced  upon  the  mount,) 
And  winds  in  moaning  gusts,  like  spirits  doomed, 
Swept  through  the  cavern  ;  and  the  giant  trees, 
Through  shivering  canopies,  their  voices  cast 
Upon  the  whirlwind ;  and  the  Apennines 
Loomed  through  the  ghastly  midnight,  shadowing  forms 
Like  Earth  Gods  in  the  revel  of  their  wrath, 


CANTO    I.  59 

With  whom  through  ages  of  quick  agony, 

Vengeance  had  been  an  ecstacy  ;  and  whirled 

In  fury  o'er  the  crags,  huge  boughs,  and  leaves, 

And  dust,  leaving  the  gnarl'd  grotesque  roots  bare, 

Quivered  along  the  sky  ;  and  lightning  leapt 

O'er  cloven  yet  contending  woods,  from  mass 

To  mass  of  all  the  surging  sea  of  clouds, 

That  rioted  amid  the  firmament, 

Flashing  like  edicts  from  the  infinite  Mind 

Of  Godhead  ;  and  from  sea,  shore,  cliff  and  vnle 

A  deep  wild  groan  in  shuddering  echoes  passed 

Through  the  earth's  heart,  and  met  the  crash  and  howl 

Of  momentary  thunders  in  mid  air. 

In  silence  from  the  moss  couch  of  their  cell, 
'Mid  the  deep  arches  of  the  grotto,  prayer 
Ascended  from  the  pale  lips  but  tried  hearts 
Of  earth's  unfriended  exiles — heaven's  redeemed ; 
And  there,  as  o'er  their  voiceless  orisons 
The  wild  tornado's  music  rushed,  the  Faith 
Sublime,  which,  through  all  torture  and  all  dread, 
The  Christian  Martyr  in  heaven's  triumph  bore, 
Pervaded  every  thought  that  soared  beyond 
The  doubt  and  fear  and  anguish  of  their  fate. 
The  first  vast  masses  of  dark  vapour  poured 
Their  deluge,  and  the  torrents  from  ravines 
And  precipices  hurried,  in  wild  foam, 
To  channels  bright  with  verdure  and  dry  beds 
Of  mountain  lakes,  flinging  their  turbid  floods 
Down  the  deep  boiling  chasm  and  with  the  sea, 
Now  hurling  its  tumultuous  waves  along 
The  echoing  shores  and  up  the  promontories, 
Conflicting  for  the  masterdom.     Each  glen, 
Tangled  with  thorns,  and  every  dim  defile, 
O'erhung  with  jagged  cliffs,  to  the  dread  hymn 
Of  the  night  storm,  shouted  their  oracles ; 
And  from  the  summit  of  Vesuvius  curled 
A  pyramid  of  vapour,  tinged  and  stained 
With  a  strange,  smothered  and  unearthly  light. 
Portents  and  prophecies  more  awful  fell 
On  every  vigilant  awed  sense  than  e'er, 


60  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

From  Pythia  shrieking  on  the  tripod,  sent 
Terror  and  madness  to  the  undoubting  heart. 
But,  while  the  hollow  dirge  of  the  strong  blast 
Startled  the  dreaming  world,  the  unruffled  minds 
Of  the  disciples  with  THE  PARACLETE 
Communed  and  gathered  from  the  Cross  new  power 
O'er  famine,  danger,  loneliness  and  death. 

Forth  from  the  cavern's  freezing  gloom  again 
Came  Mariamne,  and  upon  the  verge 
Of  the  black  rocks  she  with  her  wedded  lord 
Stood  gazing  on  the  tempest — then  thus  said  : 
"Thou  fearest  not  now,  my  Pansa  !  though  the  Mount 
Unquenchable  beneath  us  quakes  ;  wars  not 
The  dread  of  human  wrath  with  thy  fixed  trust 
In  GOD  ?  thine  eye  shrinks  not  when  all  the  heavens 
Blaze,  and  thine  ear  shuts  not  when  thunders  burst, 
Shocking  the  immensity  ;  why  fearst  thou  man  ?" 

"  I  know  him,  and  that  knowledge  is  worst  fear. 
The  Little  and  the  Mighty  are  with  him 
In  peril  imminent ;  his  passions  grasp 
All,  being  or  to  be,  and  what  his  love 
Spares,  his  hate  dooms — and  what  his  avarice, 
Ambition  tortures ;  and  his  envy  creeps, 
A  cold,  still,  mortal  serpent,  o'er  the  wreck 
Of  the  quick  heart  he  rends.     But  HE,  who  died 
For  crime  not  his,  hath  taught  my  else  fierce  heart 
To  bend  in  meekness  ;  therefore,  fear  invades 
My  too  acquainted  spirit  when  the  shade 
Of  Diomede  along  my  night  dreams  stalks. 
But  from  His  revelations  I  do  know 
The  MAKER,  and  his  holiest  name  is  Love, 
And  that  consists  not  with  the  sceptic's  dread. 
Man,  gifted  with  a  might  above  all  law, 
And  made  exempt  by  guilt  from  punishment, 
( And  such  is  this  proconsul)  must  become 
The  tyrant  of  his  province  ;  and  the  heart, 
That  weds  a  persecuted  faith,  and  loves 
A  banished  mortal,  who  on  earth  to  him 


CANTO    I.  61 

Is  as  elysium,  must  from  peril  quail, 
And  shudder  e'en  at  shadows  menacing." 

"  Yet  paynim  hate  but  lifts  our  thoughts  to  heaven," 
Said  Mariamne,  (e'en  in  woe  like  hers, 
Breathing  the  thoughts  which  Miriam  from  the  shores 
Of  Edom's  sea  breathed  o'er  the  drowning  host,) 
"  Their  fountain  first  and  final  home,  as  feigned 
Thy  poet,  of  the  Titans,  thrown  to  earth 
By  might  supernal,  yet  unconquered  ;  still 
They  from  the  bosom  of  their  mother  sprung 
With  strength  renewed,  and  added  wrath,  pourtrayed 
Upon  their  godlike  majesty  of  mien. 
Man  may  destroy,  but  cannot  desecrate  ; 
May  mock,  but  never  can  make  vain  our  faith ; 
And  if  our  hopes,  like  Christ's  own  kingdom,  are 
Not  of  this  world,  why  should  we  linger  on 
In  this  unworthy  fear,  and  shun  the  crown 
Laid  up  for  martyred  witnesses  of  truth  ? 
Let  the  worst  come  in  the  worst  agonies  ! 
We  part,  my  love  !  but  for  an  hour  of  woe  ; 
Nor  shall  we  leave — the  sport  of  heathen  scorn — 
Bright  sons  and  gentle  daughters  to  endure 
Inherited  affliction,  homeless  need, 
Perpetuated  vengeance  ;  round  our  hearts, 
In  the  dread  trial  hour  of  tortured  flesh, 
The  parent's  matchless  and  undying  love, 
With  all  its  blest  endearments,  and  the  charms 
Of  budding  childhood's  rainbow  pleasantries, 
Gushings  of  the  soul's  springtime,  falling  o'er 
Maturer  years  like  sunbright  dews  of  heaven, 
Will  never  cling  and  chain  our  daunted  minds 
To  earth's  vain  interests.     We  shall  depart 
Like  sunbows  from  the  cataract,  renewed 
By  luminaries  that  have  no  twilight — where 
Winter  and  hoar  age,  doubt,  care,  strife  and  fear, 
The  desert  and  the  samiel,  the  realm 
Of  flowers  and  pestilence,  the  purple  pomp 
And  tattered  want  of  human  life  are  not. 
What  say  the  Greek  and  Roman  sages,  love  ? 
What  Judah's  peerless  monarch,*  mid  the  wealth, 

*  Solomon.    "Vanity  of  vanities !  all  is  vanity." 


62  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

The  radiance  and  the  perfumes  and  the  power, 
The  majesty  of  thrones  and  diadems, 
And  the  excess  of  mortal  pleasure,  said 
In  his  immortal  wisdom  (how  't  was  soiled 
By  passion,  in  his  age,  for  idol  charms, 
Heaven  knows  and  sorrows  o'er  humanity,) 
Ambition,  pride,  pomp,  pleasure — all 
Are  but  the  vanities  that  tempt  man  on 
To  shame,  satiety  and  death — or  worse, 
Reckless  dishonour  and  shunned  solitude, 
Living  with  dire  remembrances  of  joy." 

To  Judah's  daughter  thus  her  lord  replied  : 
"The  GOD,  my  Mariamne  !  who  for  guilt, 
Incurred  in  other  forms  or  worlds  unknown, 
Ere  the  great  cycles  brought  our  being  here, 
(As  some  have  deemed,  if  erring  or  inspired 
I  know  not,)  clothed  our  spirits  in  this  robe 
Of  frail  flesh,  subject  to  necessities 
From  birth  to  burial,  ne'er  debased  the  mind 
Unto  the  body's  weakness,  yet  left  not 
Thought,  at  all  seasons,  master  of  our  clay. 
Wander  not  oft  the  wisest  ?  sink  not  oft 
The  strong  ?  and  blench  the  fearless  ?  and  delay 
To  reason  with  blasphemers  the  most  skilled  ? 
And  tamper  with  temptation,  the  most  pure  ? 
In  the  imparted  strength  of  heaven  I  trust, 
When  the  last  trial  of  my  faith  shall  come, 
That  the  disciple  will  not  prove  apostate. 
But  having  thee,  my  bride  !  e'en  from  the  mouth 
Of  this  wild  Cacus  vault,  that  looks  beneath 
Into  the  chaos  of  the  mountain  gorge, 
The  air,  the  forest,  the  blue  glimmering  waves, 
The  meadows  with  iheir  melodies,  the  cliffs 
Curtained  by  countless  waving  vines,  or  dark 
With  desolate  magnificence,  o'erwhelm 
My  soul  with  grandeur,  love  and  beauty,  till, 
Uttering  to  thee  the  bliss  which  nature  breathes, 
And  thrilled  by  her  seraphic  eloquence, 
I  mingle  with  the  tenderness  and  bloom 
Of  her  unfolded  scenes,  and  shrink  to  meet 


CANTO    I.  63 

The  power  that  rends  away  these  charms — this  love 

So  sternly  proved  through  each  uncertain  hour 

Since  from  Moriah's  temple,  wreathed  with  flame, 

I  snatched  thee,  pale  and  shuddering,  and  abjured 

Fame,  country,  faith,  home,  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

And  share  the  bliss  of  its  immortal  bloom. 

Life  pure  amid  corruption,  will  to  bear 

Protracted  evil,  gratitude  for  all 

The  gifts  of  GOD,  and  prayer  and  praise  in  grief, 

May  prove  a  sacrifice  to  heaven  not  less 

Than  all  the  tortures  of  the  martyrdom. 

The  tempest  passes  and  the  night  wears  on ; 

The  dome  of  heaven  is  filled  with  prophecies  ! 

With  voices  low,  but  heard  where  breathless  thoughts 

Are  oft  the  most  accepted  music,  let 

Our  evening  hymn  ascend,  and  then  to  rest." 

THE      MIDNIGHT     PRAYER. 

From  the  wild  cavern's  still  profound, 

From  cliffs  that  hang  o'er  viewless  flame, 
Our  spirits  soar  beyond  the  bound 

Of  being  to  THY  hallowed  name. 
In  gloom  and  peril,  GOD  !  thou  art 

Our  hope  amid  the  lion's  lair, 
And  from  the  desolated  heart, 

Redeemer  !  hear  our  midnight  prayer  ! 

The  lustres*  of  our  lives  are  few, 

On  darkened  earth,  our  bliss  still  less  ; 
Yet  daydawn  hears,  and  evelight  dew, 

Our  hymns  of  love  in  lone  distress  : 
By  no  green  banks,  as  prayed  our  sires, 

Our  sighs  win  heaven  to  Time's  despair, 
But  we  are  heard  by  seraph  choirs — 

Hear  thou,  O  Christ!  our  midnight  prayer! 

No  magian  charms  or  mystic  dreams, 
Or  Delian  voices,  uttering  doubt, 

k Lustra — periods  of  fifty  months:  at  the  close  of  \vhioh,  sacrifices  of  purification  were  offered. 


64  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

By  fountains  dim  and  shadowy  streams, 
The  fear,  the  awe  of  doom  breathe  out ; 

By  shrines,  red  bolts  have  sanctified, 
While  dragons  haunted  meteor  air, 

We  worship  not  as  shadows  glide — 
Redeemer !  hear  our  midnight  prayer  ! 

The  breathing  earth,  the  gleaming  heaven, 

The  song  of  sea,  mount,  vale  and  stream, 
While  dimness  waves  o'er  holy  even, 

Blend  our  glad  souls  with  beauty's  beam  ; 
But  darkness,  danger,  torrents  raise 

Our  hopes  to  THEE,  Death- Victor !  where 
In  virgin  light  fly  tearless  days — 

Redeemer  !   hear  our  midnight  prayer ! 

The  bard  bereaved  from  Orcus'  gloom, 

Through  Hades,  led  his  love  to  light, 
And  thine  adorers  from  thy  tomb 

Drink  glory  in  their  being's  night ; 
More  blest  to  need  as  thou  didst,  Lord  ! 

Than  be  the  Phrygian  monarch's  heir, 
Wanting  the  rapture  of  thy  word — 

Redeemer  !  hear  our  midnight  prayer  ? 

Judea's  incense  hills  are  dim 

And  silent,  where  the  song  went  up  ; 
Hushed  holy  harp  and  temple  hymn — 

The  slayer  drinks  the  spoiler's  cup  ! 
Earth  o'er  the  sophist's  vision  sighs, 

O'er  deeds,  king,  priest,  and  people  dare, 
And  wilt  thou  not  from  pitying  skies, 

Redeemer !  hear  our  midnight  prayer  ! 

Loosed  from  dark  homage  unto  Fear, 

Lamise,  lares,  teraphim, 
And  Delphian  voice  and  Ebal  seer, 

THY  bright  re vealments  round  us  swim, 
Pouring  upon  the  path  we  tread, 

Though  perill'd,  lone,  and  rough  and  bare, 
Light  that  inspires  the  martyred  dead  ! 

Redeemer !  hear  our  midnight  prayer ! 


CANTO  I.  65 

In  sleep  and  vigil,  guard  and  guide, 

In  secret  quest  of  earthly  food, 
From  outward  foes  and  inward  pride, 

And  the  fiend's  wiles  in  solitude ! 
O'er  idol  rites  THY  radiance  pour, 

Till,  like  the  myriad  worlds  of  air, 
The  Universe,  as  one,  adore  ! 

Redeemer !  hear  our  midnight  prayer  ! 

"  What  terrible  and  ghastly  blaze  flares  through 
The  cavern,  filling  its  abyss  with  flame?" 
Said  Pansa,  hurrying  from  the  grotto's  gloom, 
As  the  last  breathings  of  the  solemn  song 
Whispered  along  the  arches.     "  Love  !  behold  ! 
The  surges  of  the  tempest  fluctuate 
In  fierce  tumultuous  masses  'neath  yon  orb 
Of  livid  fire  that  from  the  north  careers 
O'er  the  astonished  and  convulsed  firmament! 
Nor  terror  nor  surprise  is  in  thy  look, 
For  well  thou  know'st  that  awful  herald,  seen 
Through  shadows  of  events  yet  unconceived 
By  all,  save  HIM  who  mourned  while  all  the  pomp 
Of  thy  Jerusalem  before  HIM  glowed. 
The  comet !  meteor  of  despair  to  man  ! 
Like  a  condemned,  demolished  world  of  flame, 
With  a  vast  atmosphere  of  torrent  fire, 
It  traverses  immensity  with  speed 
Confounding  thought,  hurled  on  by  viewless  power 
Omnipotent  and  unimagined,  robed 
In  dreadful  beauty — heaven's  volcano — home, 
Perchance,  of  those  gigantic  spirits  cast 
From  holiness  to  hopelessness  by  pride. 
Lo  !  how  it  sweeps  o'er  the  sky's  ocean  !  wreaths 
Of  purple  light  along  its  borders  mount 
What  seem  innumerable  colonnades 
Wrought  by  the  seraphim,  most  meet  to  bear 
A  temple  huge  as  Atlas  ;  myriad  hues, 
Deeper  and  lovelier  than  prismatic  lights, 
Curl  o'er  the  quivering  arch  as  if  to  roof 
The  vast  mysterious  fabric  of  the  sea 
9 


66  THE  LAST  WIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Of  clouds  that  throng  eternity,  to  which 

Egypt's  most  mighty  pyramid  were  not 

More  than  a  tinted  shell  to  Caucasus. 

Are  those,  that  swirl  like  wrecks  amid  the  sarf, 

Vast  mountains  wrenched  from  their  abysses^  thrown 

From  one  fire  billow's  bosom  and  engulphed 

To  be  again  hurled  on  another's  crest? 

Lo !  through  the  sky,  air-rocks,  hissing  and  red> 

From  the  volcanic  worlds  of  heaven  descend! 

What  terrors  of  infinity  they  speak  ! 

What  revelations  of  Almighty  Mind  ! 

What  be  yon  dark  and  spectral  images 

That  through  the  bickering  fiery  waves  move  slow 

Yet  haughtily  ?  oh,  what  a  furnace  glare 

Rolled  o'er  the  shadows  then,  and  left  their  forms 

Radiant  with  ruin  I  and  above,  methinks, 

Broad  wings  of  diamond  brilliance  wave  and  flash. 

What  said  thy  sires,  Love !  Israel's  holy  seers 

Of  such  reveahnents  of  divinity  ?" 

With  dark  eyes  lifted  to  tne  troubled  skyr 
And  voice  subdued  by  awe,  and  heart  o'erfraught, 
Thus  Mariamne  to  her  jord  replied. 
«*  Seldom  they  came  and  brandished  o'er  the  world 
Their  flickering  and  serpent  tongues  of  flame : 
Seldom — for  generations,  centuries  passed, 
And  men  saw  not  the  burning  heavens  o'erwrit 
In  gory  characters  of  forewarned  fate. 
Yet  deemed  our  sages,  least  of  dust,  that  all 
The  meteors  warring  with  the  myriad  worlds, 
That  circle  through  the  abyss  of  air,  had  been, 
Ere  man,  time,  sin,  or  death  was,  stars  of  bloom, 
Casting  their  beauty  and  their  fragrance  on 
The  zephyr,  hymning,  on  their  flight  through  space, 
The  MAKER,  and  awaiting  life  to  fill 
Their  groves  and  valleys  with  the  prayer  and  song. 
Yon  shattered  mass  of  boiling  minerals, 
Thus  in  its  whirlwind  madness  driven  on 
O'er  shocked  and  startled  ether,  starskill'd  eyes 
Of  the  Captivity's  prophetic  Eld 


CANTO  I.  67 

Beheld  in  vision  ere,  in  arcs  and  wreaths,- 

The  gory  torrents  of  volcanic  fire 

Precipitated  through  the  sphere  of  earth. 

Much  in  dread  visions  when  between  the  wings 

Of  cherubim  THE  GLORY  rested — much 

In  banishment  and  desert  solitude — 

And  more  in  ruin — to  the  soul  of  seers 

Was  given  to  know;  more  than  all  human  thought 

Through  all  its  systems  can  impart  to  man. 

Yet  with  least  erring  eye  the  Apostle  saw, 

What  time  he  felt  the  martyr's  hovering  crown. 

"  The  cohorts  of  the  conqueror,  when  we  trod — 
(A  banished  nation  from  our  birth  soil  rent, 
Outcast  from  earth  and  heaven — from  home  and  hope) 
The  path  of  bondage,  paused  beneath  the  hill 
Of  sycamores,  when  the  meridian  sun 
Hurled  his  fierce  arrowy  splendours;  and  around 
The  cooi  o'ershadowed  fountains,  scowling  on 
The  scorched  and  agonizing  captives,  lay 
The  imperial  legions,  casting  bitter  scorn 
And  ribald  merriment  on  each  who  passed 
Among  their  stern  battalions  to  assuage 
His  deadly  thirst : — scarce  deigned  plebeian  hate 
This  solitary  solace; — and  they  held 
Each  pilgrim  by  the  beard  and  bade  him  bow 
In  adoration  to  the  LABARUM, 
And  then  with  cruel  scoffs,  they  questioned  him 
Of  the  sacked  Temple's  spoils — what  hoards  of  gold 
The  chalices,  cups,  lavers,  shrines  would  bring 
To  the  vast  coffers  of  the  Palatine ! 
With  lips  unmoistened,  weary,  sick  in  soul, 
I  turned  aside  into  a  dreary  rift 
Of  rock  o'erbowered  with  briar  and  aconite, 
To  pray  and  perish,  for  I  had  on  earth 
No  friend  !  my  father,  on  that  morn,  had  laid 
His  weary  head  upon  my  breaking  heart 
And  died.     They  bound  him  to  a  blighted  tree 
Upon  a  desert  crag,  and,  to  my  shrieks 
Shouting,  « The  traitor  may  forget  the  path 


68  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

The  Avenger  treads !  let  him  look  on  to  Rome!' 

The  savage  spoilers  dragged  me  from  his  corse. 

Thus  to  the  earth  I  cast  me,  wailing  low, 

When  a  hand  lifted  me,  and  I  beheld 

A  form,  a  face,  so  towering,  worn  and  full 

Of  grief  and  intellect  and  holiness, 

Of  majesty  and  mildness,  that,  methought, 

'T  was  the  Love-Angel !  then  his  deep  soft  voice 

Passed  through  my  mind's  depths  like  a  cherub  hymn. 

'  Daughter  !'  he  said,  *  one  doom  is  sealed  in  blood  ! 

The  Holy  City,  stained  by  guilt,  defiled 

By  treason,  sacrilege  and  rapine,  sleeps 

In  dust — and  who  but  GOD  shall  bid  her  wake  1 

Yet  judgment  tarries  not,  because  the  arm 

Of  Rome's  proud  Desolator  worked  the  will 

Of  heaven,  fulfilling  his  own  ruthless  lust. 

Thou  shalt  behold  the  destiny  of  them 

Who  from  the  furnace  of  ambition  cast 

Their  brands  of  ruin  o'er  the  world — for  me — 

The  numbered  hours  rush  on.     My  daughter !  hear ! 

Thou  art  the  child's  child  of  one  great  in  all 

That  magnifies  the  mind  and  fills  the  heart     , 

With  earth's  sublimest  influences — all 

That  clothes  our  flesh  with  spirit  light,  and  lifts 

Our  dim  thoughts  from  the  dungeon  of  our  clay. 

Gamaliel,  thy  wise  ancestor' —     My  soul 

Glowed  at  the  name,  and,  gazing  on  that  face 

Which  never  blanched  with  fear  though  tyrants  frowned, 

Nor  in  success  exulted,  proud  of  gifts, 

Quickly  I  said,  <  Who  should  have  talked  with  him, 

Master  in  Israel,  and  yet  survive?' 

«?T  is  Saul  of  Tarsus  !'  said  he,  with  his  eyes 
Downcast  in  pale  contrition:  '  he  who  first 
Bore  faggot,  brand  and  crucifix,  and  watched 
O'er  the  red  garments  of  the  martyred  saint ; 
And,  when  the  Temple's  vail  was  rent,  and  heaven 
Shuddered  as  the  pale  King  of  Shadows  waved 
His  sceptre  o'er  the  Son  of  GOD, — was  held 
Aloft,  amidst  the  people,  to  behold 


CANTO  I.  69 

HIM  by  our  sires  blasphemed  and  slain. — If  toil, 
Baffled  temptation,  patient  suffering, 
Perils  by  land  and  wave,  and  every  ill 
Mortality  hath  borne — added  to  zeal 
And  many  years  of  vigil  thought,  may  hope 
For  pardon  of  my  crime,  I  have  not  lacked. 
But,  daughter !  as  I  rested  on  my  path, 
And  saw  thee  clinging  to  thy  father's  corse, 
I  sought  to  unfold  to  thee,  now  wrapt  in  grief, 
The  sole  Redemption  our  ost  fathers  spurned.'  ' 

She  paused  as  on  its  wandering  orbit  now 
Rushed  madly  the  lost  star,  and  gazing,  cried.; 
" — But  mark  red  Ruin's  summoner !  beneath 
The  quivering  zenith  and  the  zodiac  dimmed 
By  his  wild  glories,  how  the  herald  scorns 
The  dominations  of  the  dust,  and  dares 
The  loftiest  hierarchies  of  the  heaven  ! 
Ghastly  with  lava  light,  the  molten  clouds 
In  cloven  masses  swirl  before  his  path, 
And  with  the  crash  and  uproar  of  the  war 
Of  all  the  antagonizing  elements, 
The  demon  comet  cleaves  the  shuddering  air  !" 

"  And  now,"  said  Pansa,  "  lo  !  the  meteor  flings 
Its  glare  o'er  the  voluptuous  wantonness 
Of  Baia3  and  Pausylipo,  upon 
The  fairest  bosom  of  earth's  beauty  laid 
To  stain,  defile  and  desecrate !  beyond, 
The  waters  of  Parlhenope,  along 

The  curved  and  blossomed  shores,  from  the  dark  brow 
Of  the  Misenum  to  Surrentum  rocks 
And  Caprese's  isle  of  carnage,  curl  and  moan ; 
And  on  the  ebbless  sea  the  furnace  fires, 
With  darkness  struggling,  cast  their  horrid  light. 
The  promontories  and  proud  Apennines 
Seem  to  uplift  their  precipices  o'er 
The  wild  air  and  affrighted  sea  in  dread ; 
And  the  deep  forests,  quaking  yet  beneath 
The  -Alpine  torrent  blast,  through  all  their  clouds 


70  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Of  leaves,  drink  the  dark  crimson  streams  that  pour 
In  lurid  cataracts  of  flame  from  heaven: 
And  every  breathing  thing — man,  beast,  tree,  flower- 
Pants  in  the  siroc  that  from  Lybian  sands 
Hastens  to  mingle  with  the  withering  breath 
Of  yon  gigantic  world  of  Death  !     Fear  holds 
My  spirit  captive  to  the  majesty 
Of  the  unearthly  Portent.     But  thou,  Love  ! 
With  the  Apostle  didst  commune,  thou  saidst — 
O  GOD!  I  saw  him  die! — what  said  he,  then, 
In  his  own  peril  and  thine  agony?" 

"  Thus  spake  the  prophet  saint,  with  voice  as  sweet 
As  when  he  uttered  blessings  on  his  foes, 
*  Fulfilled  by  Christian  faith,  the  Law,  whose  voice 
Was  judgment  to  our  fathers,  by  the  blood 
Of  the  One  Victim  unto  all  becomes 
The  very  soul  of  Love  !'     Thus  he  began, 
And  with  an  eloquence  that  thrilled  my  heart, 
Contrite  and  meek,  interpreted  the  law, 
That  spake  in  thunders  from  the  Desert  Mount ; — 
He,  the  Awakener  of  nations,  whose  high  gifts, 
E'en  in  the  grandest  spheres  of  fame,  had  won 
The  palm  and  laurel  crown,  but  that  in  vain 
Cajoling  tempters  spread  their  blandishments 
And  the  seducings  of  apt  sophistries 
Tangled  their  meshes  round  him.     Affluence, 
Dominion  o'er  the  treasures  and  the  thoughts 
Of  traitor  worshippers,  the  feigned  awe  breathed 
By  vassal  sycophants  through  tainted  courts, 
Thronged  temples,  porticoes,  and  schools  of  sects, 
He  cast  aside  as  winds  do  dust  to  dust 
He  felt  his  intellect's  supremacy, 
And  shrunk  from  moulded  clay  that  lipped  his  name 
In  interested  eostacies — he  knew 
Himself  and  sought  not  other  knowledge  here. 
In  place  of  men's  dissembled  treacheries, 
He,  clothed  with  immortality's  own  light, 
Pictured  the  Passion,  spread  the  Eucharist, 
Soothed  the  quick  pangs  of  lonely  malady, 


CANTO  I.  71 

Warded  the  fold  of  faith  assailed,  and  stood 

In  every  danger  on  the  vanward  tower 

To  watch,  guard,  counsel,  lead,  bear  scorn,  and  die ! 

Brief  was  our  converse,  for  the  Flavian  trump, 

With  its  deep  echoes,  startled  the  great  host. 

But  from  that  hour,  through  agony  and  shame, 

I  have  not  trembled  to  confess  THE  WORD, 

Whose  smile  is,  e'en  in  the  worst  evil,  heaven. 

'  Farewell!  my  captive  child !'  ho  said,  *  when  powei 

Purples  the  rills  with  blood  of  martyrdom 

And  wanton  crime  mocks  thy  unpitied  moans, 

Forget  not  Calvary  and  Gethsemane  ! 

Forget  not  that  my  eye  beholds  e'en  now, 

Down  the  dark  lapses  of  Time  unconceived, 

A  terrible  atonement  of  the  doom 

That  made  our  Solyma  a  desert!  o'er 

Infinitude!:  ne  vision  rushes — earth 

With  shrieks  of  wrath  and  quick  convulsions  hails 

The  herald  of  despair — it  whirls  and  leaps, 

Like  living  madness  now,  and  tosses  o'er 

Unterminating  and  unsounded  air 

Perpetual  deluges  of  flame,  to  warn 

The  scoffer  and  the  rioter.     Farewell ! 

Desolate  daughter  of  a  slaughtered  sire  ! 

Forget  not !  and  the  Paraclete  console 

Thy  lingering  sorrows !  mine  are  almost  done !' 

The  fountain  of  my  heart  o'erflowed ;  I  looked, 

Yet  never  more  beheld  the  godlike  brow 

Of  Christendom's  apostle ;  through  the  shades 

Of  the  descending  cavern  slowly  waved 

His  mantle,  the  white  turban  seemed  to  hang 

A  moment  in  the  gloom ;  his  sandalled  feet 

Sent  back  a  few  low  sounds — and  he  had  passed 

Unto  his  mission  and  his  martyrdom! 

But  tell  me,  love  !  beneath  this  ghastly  light, 

The  story  of  his  doom — how  passed  his  soul 

From  torture  into  triumph  when  the  flesh 

Clung  round  the  spirit  in  its  agony  ?" 

"In  calm  magnificence  that  spirit  passed 
From  gloom  to  glory,  through  its  martyrdom, 


72  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Triumphant  over  agony  and  scorn !" 

Said  Pansa,  casting  on  the  o'erhung  crags 

And  piles  of  rifted  scoriae  half  green'd  o'er, 

(Beauty  embracing  ruin,)  glances  quick 

As  through  the  midnight  smothered  sounds  arose 

Like  breaths  held  back,  and  then,  at  intervals, 

Gasping  in  sobs,  like  moanings  of  the  surf. 

With  startled  ear,  strained  eye  and  quivering  brow, 

Listened  the  Christian ;  but  the  dells  reposed 

In  their  green  blessedness,  the  hills  looked  down 

From  their  cold  solitudes;  above,  the  flame 

Of  the  banned  star  flared  far  and  dim — beneath, 

Pompeii  lay,  folded  in  sleep  that  flings 

Oblivion  o'er  the  exhaustion  of  desire; 

And,  breathing  terror  from  his  burdened  heart, 

He  thus  pourtrayed  the  passion  of  the  Saint. 

"  No  psalteries  or  harps  their  music  poured 
Around  his  death-hour ;  no  bewailing  dirge 
Gushed  from  the  tabret,  and  no  gentle  voice 
Arose,  lamenting  o'er  his  felon  doom. 
Alone  amid  his  slayers  and  the  foes 
Of  Him  they  crucified,  Paul  calmly  stood, 
Nor  daring  pagan  hate  nor  dreading  it, 
His  white  hair  streaming  on  the  autumnal  wind. 
His  countenance,  trenched  o'er  by  thought  and  care 
And  toil  and  suffering,  gathered,  as  he  looked 
Upon  the  Praetor  on  his  throne  of  power, 
The  grandeur  of  his  youth,  the  matchless  light 
Of  a  triumphant  intellect  that  grasped 
An  immortality  of  bliss,  and  feared 
No  mortal  agony  when  death  was  heaven. 
«  Thou  art  a  Christian  ?     Paul  held  up  the  Cross. 

•  Thou  art  a  Hebrew?'     '  Ay,  I  ivas,  and  worse  !* 

*  Thou  art  a  Traitor  V     l  Not  to  God  or  man  !' 
Cried  the  Apostle,  and  his  monarch  form 
Rose  from  the  ruins  of  his  years,  and  stood, 
Like  the  unpeered  statue  of  Olympian  Jove, 
Before  the  quailing  Paynim.     «  Edicts,  hurled 
By  Agrippina's  son,  had  Rome  a  soul. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT    OF  POMPEII.  73 

E'en  from  blasphemed  humanity  would  call 

For  vengeance  on  the  utterer.     Where  's  the  guilt 

Of  thought?  the  crime  of  faith,  whose  very  soul 

Is  low- voiced  worship  and  still  charities  ? 

The  loftiest  mind  most  loves  humility  ! 

The  imperial  ban,  ('t  was  uttered  by  the  banned,) 

Leaves  deeds  untouched  but  criminates  the  thought: 

Hales  famished,  homeless  and  (for  this  vain  world) 

Hopeless  believers  of  an  humble  faith, 

To  judgment,  not  to  trial,  and  allows 

The  apostacy,  it  e'er  arraigns  as  crime. 

Death  or  Denial !  is  the  only  law 

Of  Rome,  whose  wings  are  o'er  the  world,  to  men 

So  poor,  they  have  no  pillow,  and  so  few, 

They  have  no  power :  and  yet  the  Palatine 

Fears  they — they  may  subvert  its  giant  might ! 

Is  Truth  so  terrible  to  the  Immortal  Gods, 

That  they  should  tremble  at  a  mortal  voice  ? 

Dreads  the  fierce  Thunderer  the  cicada's  song  ? 

Or  your  gay  god  of  Revels,  lest  the  charm 

Of  his  wreathed  thyrsus  may  depart,  when  woods 

And  caverns  are  the  palaces,  and  rills 

And  berries  all  the  banquet  of  his  foes? 

Yet  none  of  all  thy  fabled  deities, 

Save  hirsute  fauns  and  lonely  oreads, 

Behold  our  rites,  or  need  shrink  to  behold. 

How  should  conspiracy  consort  with  want 

And  weakness  so  extreme,  they  lack  the  power 

To  lift  the  dying  head  or  bear  the  corse 

Beyond  the  grotto  where  they  weep  and  pray  ? 

And  who  of  all  Rome's  judges  can  arraign 

The  Christian  for  a  deed  that  could  design 

Possession  of  a  hamlet,  or  a  hut  ? 

We  seek  no  empire  save  the  free  soul's  thought ; 

We  court  no  patron  save  THE  CRUCIFIED  ; 

We  win  no  crown  save  that  of  martyrdom.' 

1  Smite,  silence  the  blasphemer  !'  shrieked  the  judge, 
Robing  his  fear  in  wrath ;  'too  long  we  waste 
The  Empire's  time — chain  the  conspirator  ! 
And,  lictors!  guard  his  cross  from  slaves,  and  all 

10 


74  CANTO    I. 

The  baser  multitudes  that  throng  to  hear 
The  maniac  treasons  of  the  Nazarenes. 
Hoar  breeder  of  sedition,  thou  must  die!' 

'Nature  said  that  when  I  was  born,  and  GOD, 

Ere  that,  a  thousand  ages,  when  Sin  rose 

From  Hades ;  not  in  vain  have  all  the  power, 

Splendour  and  guilt  of  Rome  before  me  passed 

In  danger  yet  in  solitude,  and  now 

I  fold  unto  my  bosom  that  deep  death 

I  never  sought  nor  shunned,  and  thank  the  ruth 

Of  that  derision  which  ordains  the  Cross. 

The  MASTER  of  your  vast — of  every  realm, 

Sea,  earth  and  sky  hold,  taught  me  by  His  groai) 

That  the  last  breath  was  agony,  but  He 

Hath  sent  the  Paraclete  to  o'ershadow  all 

Who  perish  by  his  Passion,  and  I  go, 

Purple  idolater  !  having  wandered  long 

Through  many  years  of  weariness,  to  rest, 

Where,  couldst  thou  ever  share  my  bliss,  this  hour, 

With  less  of  anguish,  would  pass  o'er  my  soul !' 

Then  led  they  him  unto  the  Accursed  Field* 

Beyond  the  Patriot's  Precipice,  'mid  bands 

Of  mailed  Praetorians,  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 

Bearing  the  Labarum,  whose  folds  were  dipped 

In  the  world's  blood ;  and  proudly  in  the  van 

The  aruspices  in  purple  trabeae  walked,f 

Their  oakjeaf  chaplets  waving :  then  in  throngs, 

The  mad  Luperci,  atheist  priests  of  Mars, 

In  crimson  togas  and  broad  burnished  plates 

Of  brass  that  mirrored  carnage,  followed  quick. 

And  the  wild  flamens  of  Cybele,  stained 

By  the  red  vintage,  and  the  countless  crowd 

*  The  Campus  Sceleratus,  where  vestal  virgins  were  buried  alive  when  they  followed 
the  example  of  Rhcea  Sylvia.  The  Tarpeian  Rock  was  not  far  removed  from  su,ch  ap 
propriate  neighbourhood. 

•f-  The  prognosticators  of  Rome  were  allowed  extraordinary  honours  ;  and  their  trabeae, 
or  robes  of  office,  nearly  resembled  those  of  the  Emperors.  Every  superstition  exalts  its 
expositors;  and  the  Roman  priests  well  knew  the  power  which  fear  and  ignorance  con 
ferred  upon  them,  and  abhorred  in  the  same  degree  that  they  dreaded  the  illumination  of 
Christianity.  The  fasces,  the  trabere,  pretext*,  and  curule  chair  were  introduced  by  Tar- 
quin  Priscus  from  conquered  Tuscany. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII.  75 

Of  magi,  augurs,  senators  and  slaves, 

Paphians  and  vestals,  through  the  marble  streets, 

From  dusky  lanes  and  sculptured  palaces, 

Temple  and  forum  and  Cimmerian  den, 

Outpoured  in  pageantry  or  squalid  want, 

Like  Scylla's  whirlpool  fiends,  to  feast  on  death. 

*T  was  ever  thus  in  Rome ;  she  nursed  her  horde 

Of  bandits,  from  the  first,  on  blood  ;  and  war, 

Wedding  with  carnage,  wrote  her  very  creed 

Jn  groans,  and  wrought  her  gods  from  myriad  crimes. 

So  on  they  led  the  Martyr  stooping  low 

Beneath  the  felon  cross,  his  glorious  brow, 

Oft  wet  with  dungeon  dew,  soiled  by  the  dust 

Of  the  armed  cohort,  yet  his  undimmed  eye 

Flashing  its  birthlight  radiance  unto  heaven, 

Drinking  revealments  of  God's  paradise. 

Oath,  menace,  jeer  and  ribald  mockeries, 

The  vulgar's  worship  of  ail  greatness,  passed 

Like  the  sirocco,  o'er  Campanian  flowers, 

Or  snowpiles  of  the  Apennines,  gathering  bloom 

And  zephyr  freshness,  o'er  his  sainted  soul. 

His  lofty  nature  did,  a  moment,  seem 

Burning  in  scorn  upon  his  lips,  and  once, 

Clasping  the  heavy  cross  as  't  were  a  wand, 

He  lifted  his  proud  form  and  matchless  head, 

And  o'er  the  helmed  lictors  looked  upon 

The  mockers — and  they  shrunk  beneath  his  glance 

Like  grass  beneath  the  samiel ;  yet  no  more, 

Hushing  the  spirit  of  his  gra'ndeur,  he 

Deigned  to  deem  earth  his  home,  or  earthly  things 

Fit  wakeners  of  his  thought.     And  so  he  came 

Unto  the  Accursed  Field,  and  one,  all  shunned, 

Loathing,  drave  down  the  massy  cross,  whereon, 

With  lingering  patience,  he  had  stretched  and  nailed, 

Through  palm  and  sole,  the  Martyr,  every  blow 

Tearing  the  impaled  nerves,  and  through  heart  and  brain 

Sending  a  sick  convulsion  ;  but  the  pangs 

Passed  quickly  o'er  his  features,  though  the  limbs 

Quivered,  and,  as  he  looked  to  heaven,  a  fight, 

Brighter  than  all  Heaven's  constellations  blent, 

Fell  round  the  Martyr  in  his  agony  ! 


76  CANTO    I. 

'  A  prodigy !  Jove  flashes  wrath  !  the  gods 
Forbid  the  death  !'  shouted  the  multitude, 
Like  foliage  fluctuating,  as  the  spells 
Of  all-believing  Fear  fell  on  their  hearts. 
*  All  Rome  shall  perish  if  the  Christian  dies  !' 

'  Hence,  vassals  !  fools  !  home  to  your  huts  !  away  !' 
Passed  the  prcud  Prefect's  deep,  stern,  ruthless  voice, 
Whose  echo  was  an  oracle.     «  Ye  slaves  ! 
The  beast  should  batten  on  the  slain,  I  know, 
And  ye  can  taunt  and  torture  helplessness, 
Yet  dread  the  very  shade  of  Danger's  ghost; 
But,  by  the  Spectre  River !  Rome's  best  spears 
Shall  search  your  dastard  dust,  if  ye  but  speak 
Ere  each  adores  his  Lares  !  hence  !  away  !' 

The  Gracchi  from  the  Aventine  dragged  forth* 
For  senators  to  slaughter  well  displayed 
The  liberties  of  Rome  ;  and  they,  who  held 
The  Briton  chief  barbarian,  shrunk  away, 
When  a  patrician  bade,  without  a  voice ! 
But  bondage  and  brute  violence  are  one. 

Then,  as  the  steps  of  the  vast  throng  retired 

Like  dying  waves,  the  priests  and  guards  outspread 

Their  banquet  on  the  plain  beneath  the  tents, 

(The  kalends  of  the  seventh  month  had  come) 

They  bore  to  shield  the  sun,  while  there  they  watched 

The  fever,  famine,  thirst  and  pangs  of  death. 

Pheasants,  Falernian,  mirth,  song,  jest  and  oath 

Inspired  the  revel  'neath  the  cross,  and  all 

Care  and  command,  save  that  which  bade  them  see 

The  Martyr  die,  fled  from  their  spirits  now. 

Wanton  with  wine,  the  priest  revealed  to  scorn 

His  wiles  and  sophistries  and  oracles, 

*  For  attempting,  by  the  enactment  of  the  Agrarian  Law,  to  restrain  the  exorbitant 
power  of  the  patricians,  Tiberius  Gracchus  was  assassinated  in  the  Capitol  by  Scipio 
Nasica ;  Caius  Gracchus  and  Fulvius  Flaccus  were  killed  by  Opimius,  the  consul ;  Sa- 
turninus,  the  tribune,  was  murdered  by  a  mob  of  Conscript  Fathers  ;  and  Livius  Drusus, 
on  the  same  account,  was  slain  in  his  own  house.  All  in  Rome,  who  could  not  trace 
their  descent  from  the  highwayman  Romulus,  or  some  one  of  his  least  merciful  banditti, 
were  esteemed  no  better  than  vassals.  The  Romans  never  understood  either  justice, 
mercy,  or  freedom ;  their  dominion  was  acquired  by  the  sword  without  remorse,  and  zl 
perished  by  the  sword  without  regret. 


THE    LAST    NIGHT  OF  POMPEII.  77 

Blessing  the  phantom  gods  that  shadows  held 

Dominion  o'er  the  conscious  fears  of  men. 

Warriors  portrayed,  m  tales  of  other  climes, 

Numidia,  Arcady  or  Syrian  realms, 

The  splendour  of  the  spoil,  the  gems  and  gold, 

The  perfumes,  luxuries  and  regal  robes, 

Fair  slaves  and  diamonds,  from  the  Orient  shores 

Wafted,  in  homage  to  the  diadem 

That  circled  nations.     Many  a  demon  deed 

And  dark  career  of  crime  then  first  to  light 

Leapt  from  the  dizzy  brain  of  guilt,  and  moved 

Applause  and  rival  histories  of  acts 

O'erpast;  how  dusky  kings  in  palaces, 

Amid  their  pomp,  gleaming  magnificence, 

Did  perish  in  the  flame,  and  none  could  save 

The  victim,  though  they  bore  his  coffers  forth. 

How  queens  and  virgin  beauties  in  their  bowers, 

On  broidered  couches  slumbering,  while  their  robes 

Like  zodiacs,  glittered  in  the  purple  light, 
Felt  not  the  serpent  that  trailed  o'er  their  sleep, 

But  died  in  their  pavilions,  voicelessly  ! 

Then  senators  and  knights,  with  mutual  mirth, 

Discoursed  of  laws  enacted  or  suppressed 

As  suited  Cassar ;  and  quenched  liberties, 

Naming  them  treason ;  and  asserted  rights, 

They  branded  as  seditions  ;  and  revealed 

To  the  unshuddering  guards  the  mysteries 

Of  Rome's  proud  Forum,  where  the  agonies 

Of  desolated  kingdoms,  and  the  shrieks 

Of  nations  in  their  bondage,  and  the  tears 

Of  eloquent  affection  to  the  lords 

Of  Power  were  music  and  unholy  mirth. 

Then  round  the  Martyr  mingled  voices  rose 

Louder,  and  laughter  to  impiety 

Replied,  and  men,  the  gods,  truth,  chastity, 

Love,  honour,  courage  and  fidelity, 

All  were  but  mockeries  to  the  rioters. 

"  Hercle  !  is  this  the  Lupercal?  ye  howl 
Like  Conscript  Fathers  when  the  spoil  is  lost  ! 
Peace  !"  said  the  Prefect — "  see  ye  not  the  lips 
Of  yon  hoar  traitor  trembling  with  quick  thought  ? 


78  CANTO    I. 

Listen  !  he  speaks  his  last, — his  heart 's  too  old 
To  linger  in  the  torture  of  the  tree !" 

"  The  Isles  shall  wait,  Jehovah  !    for  thy  law,* 
And  Knowledge  to  and  fro  shall  spread,  till  earth 
Utter  Thy  praise  like  voices  of  the  sea  !" 
Thus  spake  the  victim,  in  delirium, 
Wrought  by  deep  anguish,  wandering  yet  among 
The  dear  homes  of  his  mission.     "  Dangers  wave 
Their  wings  around  us,  brethren  !  and  the  waste, 
Boundless  and  shadowless,  must  still  be  trod  ! 
Yet  not  by  dim  lights  of  a  doubting  faith 
Are  ye  led  on  through  wrong  and  woe  ar>d  want, 
For  the  Anointed  hath  not  left  us  here 
Without  a  Comforter,  and  hath  He  not 
Laid  up,  in  many  mansions,  crowns  of  joyr 
Where  mortal  doth  put  on  immortality  ? 
Grieve  not  the  Spirit !  yet  a  little  while, 
And  ye  shall  reap  the  harvest  and  rejoice  ; 
And  though,  ere  then,  this  flesh  must  see  decay, 
Yet  I  shall  mingle  with  your  prayer  and  hymn, 
By  morn  and  eve — and  breathe  the  Saviour's  smile 
O'er  the  glad  Isles  of  Gentiles  so  beloved  !" 

Then  spasms  of  vivid  pain  passed  o'er  his  face, 

His  eyes  rolled  back  upon  the  brain,  and  left 

The  pale  streaked  orbs  writhing  in  gloom — the  lids 

Now  folded  to  their  lashes,  coiling  now 

In  nature's  deep  convulsion,  till  the  veins, 

O'erfraught,  seemed  bursting  o'er  his  haggard  brow. 

His  livid  lips,  parted  by  torture,  breathed 

Deep  undistinguished  murmurs,  then  compressed 

Like  sculptured  curves  and  lines  of  thought ;  the  limbs, 

Meantime,  grew  cold,  and  the  dark  gathering  blood 

Forsook  its  own  familiar  channel,  when 

The  shadows  of  the  sepulchre  stole  on, 

*  I  have  made  the  dying  ejaculations  of  St  Paul  to  consist  mostly  of  portions  of  his  own 
powerful  writings.  Nothing  more  beautiful  or  splendid  can  be  found  in  any  compositions 
— more  vivid  with  the  heart's  best  emotions  and  the  mind's  most  lofty  conceptions — than 
the  remonstrances  and  arguments  of  the  great  Apostle,  who  devoted  himself  to  the  propaga 
tion  of  that  religion  he  had  once  assailed,  with  an  energy  and  enthusiasm  and  utter  oblivion 
of  self,  which  should  find  more  imitators  among  the  curates  of  men's  souls. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT    OF    POMPEII.  79 

"  Dis  leaves  his  realm  to  welcome  him,"  said  one. 

"  Peace  !  thou  discourteous  knight  1  jeers  skill  not  now; 

Thy  mirth  is  motlied  with  mortality, 

And  thou  thyself  mayst  pray  for  Lethe  ere 

The  graceless  Stygian  grasps  thine  obolus. 

Put  on  thy  knighthood  !  peace !  he  speaks  again!" 

And  the  proud  Prefect  flung  his  casque  to  earth. 

In  moans,  like  autumn  gusts,  the  Martyr  spake, 
Hovering  o'er  shattered  memories  like  the  sun 
O'er  broken  billows  of  the  shoreless  sea  ! 
Let  me  behold  thy  domes,  Damascus !  meet 
It  is  the  arrows  of  Life's  penitence 
Should  pierce  the  persecutor.' — Oh,  farewell ! 
My  brother  !  blessed  in  Pisidia  be 
Thy  walk  and  watching  !— To  the  Unknown  God  i 
Are  ye  the  worshipped  wisdom  of  all  Greece, 
When  ye  disdain  your  thrice  ten  thousand  gods, 
Adoring  Doubt  or  Demon,  knowing  not 
The  Deity  revealed  ! — Ye  can  attest, 
I  have  not  coveted  the  gold  of  earth, 
The  gorgeous  raiment  or  vain  pomp  of  men, 
But  ministered,  in  all,  unto  myself! 
— Ay,  driven  to  and  fro  in  Adria 
Upon  Euroclydon,  no  hope  is  left 
But  in  the  Wielderof  the  wave  and  wind. 
Despair  not !  though  sun,  moon  and  stars  are  hid, 
Jehovah  watches  from  eternity  ! 
— Contend  not,  brethren  !  untaught  man  may  win 
Redemption  from  the  deep  crimes  of  his  age, 
And  be  a  law  unto  himself;  e'en  Rome 
Hath  in  her  centuries  of  guilt  had  such. 
— Oh,  sorrow  not  like  them  who  have  no  hope! 
The  seed  shall  not  decay  though  I  am  dust ! 
— Why  do  ye  scourge  me,  soldiers  !   know  ye  not 
I  am  a  Roman  1  I  appeal  to  Ca3sar ! 
— Bring  me  a  winter  robe  when  thou  dost  come 
Again — the  night  is  cold  among  the  hills, 
And  I  am  very  weary  !  so,  farewell !" 
Then  the  bare  nerves  and  sinews  sent  their  pangs 
For  the  last  time  upon  his  fainting  heart, 


80  CANTO    I. 

And,  as  beyond  the  trembling  battlements 

Of  agonizing  flesh,  the  spirit  strove 

To  flee,  beholding  heaven,  the  bitter  strife 

O'erawed  the  infidels,  and  round  the  Cross 

Stood  silent  pagan  revellers!  Once  more 

The  Apostle's  peerless  mind  gleamed  out — his  eyes, 

Living  in  the  dark  light  of  boyhood,  flung 

Their  dying  splendours  o'er  the  Imperial  Hills, 

The  mountains  and  the  waters — while  his  pulse 

Intensely  throbbed  and  paused — and  the  heart's  chill 

And  fever  rushed  to  life's  deep  fount  and  spread 

A  shuddering  faintness  and  sick  gasping  sense 

Of  falling  through  infinitude,  o'er  all 

The  vital  functions  of  his  frame.     "  My  God  !" 

'T  was  the  last  breath  that  quivered  on  his  lips — 

A  hollow  echo  from  the  martyr's  tomb, 

Yet  it  said  "  SAVIOUR  !  let  me — see — Thy  face  !" 

And  Saul  of  Tarsus  stood  before  his  God  !" 

"  As  thou  shalt  stand  before  Ga3tulia's  king, 

The  Barcan  lion  !"  cried  the  ruthless  voice 

Of  Diomede's  outwatching  messenger, 

The  pander  of  the  Praetor's  evil  will, 

Grasping  the  Christian  while  his  fellows  rushed 

Upon  his  pale  but  dreadless  Hebrew  bride. 

"  Well !"    said  the  minion,  "  traitors  serve,  sometimes, 

The  empire's  weal,  and  martyrdom,  methinks, 

Hath  a  rare  syren  music,  for  ye  stood 

Wrapt  in  your  exalted  Nazarene, 

Till  we  could  climb  the  cliffs  and  do  the  hest 

Of  the  proconsul,  unfulfilled  too  long  ! 

Come,  Rabbi !  thou  art  skilled  in  subterfuge, 

And  hast  not  scorned  the  sword  in  better  times — 

The  games  shall  test  thy  genius — on  with  me  ! 

The  Gladiator's  banquet  waits,  and  thou 

Shalt  quaff  the  Massic  or  the  Tears  of  Christ.* 

Veles  !  thou  hast  thy  charge  !  the  Prsetor's  coin 

Rewards  not  slack  obedience,  though  his  wrath 

Ne'er  palters  with  a  thought  of  treachery  ! 

*The  wine  of  Mount  Vesuvius  is  profanely  called  Lacrymte  Christi. 


"THE    LAST    MOHT    OF    POMPEII.  81 

The  lady — (Venus  !  but  she  hath  a  brow 

Like  the  coy  Delian  queen  !) — must  be  disposed, 

With  all  respect, — lead  on  !  the  day-star  wanes  !" 

"  Thraso  !    we  were  not  foes  when,  side  by  side, 
We  scaled  Antonia's  tower,  and  saw  the  walls 
Of  Zion  crushed.     Why  now  ?  what  are  our  deeds 
That  thus  from  caverns  we  to  death  are  dragged?" 
Said  Pansa,  writh  the  heart's  best  eloquence, 
As  down  the  steep  crags  turned  the  lictor  band, 
Bearing  his  bride.     "  Why  from  my  heart,  by  guile 
Betrayed,  by  violence  asunder  rent, 
Tear'st  thou  my  Mariamne,  mocking  thus?" 

"  And  dost  thou  ask,  apostate  ?  hast  thou  not 
Contemned  the  gods,  scorning  thy  father's  faith  ? 
Forsaken  the  eagle  banners,  deeming  rocks 
Better  than  camps!  and  sowed  sedition,  thick 
As  sand-clouds,  through  the  legions  ?     Thou  hast  wed 
A  captive,  too,  whom,  though  with  all  thy  gold 
Thou  bought'st,  poor  fool !  yet  hast  not  held,  as  bids 
The  law,  in  bondage  !  dost  thou  ask  again? 
Mine  office  deigns  no  farther  word,  but  more 
Thou  soon  shalt  learn  in  bitterness !  lead  on  !" 

"  Bear  me  with  her,  where'er  ye  drag,  whate'er 
Ye  or  your  lords  in  lawlessness  inflict ! 
No  more  my  voice  shall  crave  or  ye  deny  !" 
Cried  Pansa,  struggling  with  the  lictor  horde. 

"  The  Praetor's  edict  suits  no  purposes 
Apostates  may  desire  ;  your  destinies 
Have  separate  mansions,  renegade!"     Along 
Ravine  and  precipice  and  lava  bed, 
Vineyard,  pomegranate  grove  and  vale  of  bloom, 
The  Pagan  haled  his  victims,  till  the  gate 
Of  doomed  Pompeii  oped  and  Pansa  saw, 
In  speechless  agony,  a  moment  ere 

11 


82  CANTO    I. 

The  Mamertine  abysses*  were  his  home, 
Palo  shuddering  Maria mne  through  the  gloom 
Of  statues,  pillars,  temples  and  hushed  streets, 
Where  fountains  only  witnessed  deeds  of  death, 
Borne  like  a  shadow  to  a  nameless  doom. 

*  Dungeons  even  more  horrible  than  those  of  \enetian  and  Austrian  tyranny,  dug 
immediately  beneath  the  elevated  seat  of  the  Prator,  in  the  hall  of  judgment ;  and  so 
called  from  the  Roman  consul  Mamertinus,  who  planned  their  construction,  and  who 
should  have  been,  like  Phalaris  and  the  inventor  of  the  guillotine,  the  first  to  test  the 
merit  of  his  philanthropic  ingenuity. 


CANTO  II. 


VANDAL  and  violator,  Time  !  thou  art 

The  spirit's  master — the  heart's  mocker !  thou 

Pourest  the  deluge  of  returnless  years 

Over  the  gasping  bosom,  and  on  thought, 

That,  in  aurora  streams  of  magic  light, 

Flung  its  deep  glory  o'er  the  heavens,  dost  heap 

Clouds  without  flame  or  voice,  cold,  deep  and  dark, 

Which  are  the  shroud  of  the  mind's  sepulchre  ! 

Far  better  not  to  be  than  thus  to  be  ! 

Better  to  wander  like  the  gossamer, 

The  baffled  buffet  of  each  aimless  wind, 

Than  sink  like  dial  shadows,  all  but  breath 

Leaving  the  wreck  that  trembles  on  the  strand. 

And  why  to  man,  feeble  in  youth's  best  hours 

Of  bud  and  bloom,  in  all  his  holiest  hopes 

So  false  unto  himself  and  his  compeers, 

Are  strength,  pride,  power  and  burning  thoughts  assigned  ? 

Why  is  his  grandeur  wedded  to  despair  ? 

His  love  to  grief?  his  heart  to  hopelessness  ? 

His  fame  and  his  dominion  to  the  dust  ? 

Yet  thou,  Tyrant  of  Air  !  hast  chronicles 
Of  darker  import,  and  the  world  is  filled 
With  thine  unpitying  ministers  of  woe. 
Beneath  the  rush  of  thy  dark  pinions  nought 
Lives,  or  life  lingers,  breathing  at  its  birth 
The  death  that  soon  becomes  an  ecstacy. 
Wan  yet  not  hoary,  broken  at  the  goal 
Of  young  ambition,  myriads  writhe  beneath 
The  agonies  thou  bring'st ;  and  nevermore, 
But  in  the  tomb,  seek  solace  of  sweet  sleep. 
Earth's  beauty,  heaven's  magnificence,  the  charms 
Of  zephyrs,  verdure,  azure,  light,  hills,  streams, 
And  forests  castled  by  eternal  rocks, 
Beheld  long,  fade  upon  the  sated  soul, 


84  CANTO  II. 

Exhaust  by  their  sublimities,  and  shed 
Their  fragrance,  music  and  romance  on  hearts 
Inured  and  soiled — too  weak  to  bear  their  bliss, 
Too  cold  to  feel  their  glories  !  And  we  roam 
The  paradise  of  all  earth's  pleasantries, 
Amid  the  care,  toil,  phrenzy,  want  and  strife 
Of  the  protracted  agonies  of  breath, 
Feeding  on  raptures,  that,  fulfilled,  are  woes  ! 

But  o'er  thy  ruins,  Time!  and  the  thick  clouds 
Of  the  heart's  mysteries  a  sun  shall  burst, 
As  now  Apollo's  steeds,  caparisoned 
In  hues  of  heaven,  rush  up  the  Apennines, 
Stareyed  Eous  and  wild  Phlegon  first, 
Pouring  the  sungod's  splendours  o'er  the  domes 
Of  doomed  Pompeii  nevermore  to  sleep. 

As  from  the  violet  pavilion  stole 
The  dayspring's  beautiful  and  blessed  light, 
Like  rose  leaves  floating,  and  the  mountains  bent 
Their  awful  brows  in  worship  at  the  fount 
Of  radiance,  by  all  ages  sacred  held 
As  the  peculiar  home  of  deity, 
Mythra  or  Bel  or  Elios — (the  name 
Erred,  but  the  spirit  filled  the  heavens  with  life,) 
Uprose  the  vassals  from  their  earth-beds,  late 
On  yesternight  pressed  by  the  sinking  limbs 
And  breaking  hearts  of  bondage  ;  no  perfumes 
Soothed  bodies  gashed  with  scourges,  or  shorn  heads , 
No  lavers  waited  thraldom  ;  on  they  flung 
Rude  garments  soiled  by  servitude,  and  turned 
To  grind  at  the  accursed  mill,  and  lift 
Their  branded  brows  at  the  stern  master's  voice, 
In  silence  passing  o'er  Mosaic  floors 
To  bear  the  golden  bowl  or  myrrhine  cup, 
Falernian,  or  frankincense  to  their  lords. 
For  them  no  statue  bowed  in  majesty, 
No  council  framed  a  law,  and  none  of  all 
The  common  deeds  of  earth  had  interest; 
For  they  were  stricken  from  the  roll  of  men 


THE   LAST  NIGHT  OF    POMPEII.  85 

And  banished  from  humanity,*  and  Rome 

Gazed  from  the  temple  of  her  trophies  on 

The  hopeless  captives — from  her  triumph  hills, 

Where  armies  shouted  Liberty  !  upon 

Her  myriads  of  bondmen,  with  a  smile, 

That  thanked  her  thrice  ten  thousand  deities, 

The  overshadowing  empire  of  the  world  was  Free ! 

Waking  to  want  from  dreams  of  affluence, 

Parting  from  splendour  to  meet  toil  and  tears, 

Then  rose  pale  Indigence  in  shattered  cells, 

Dusky  and  damp  and  squalid,  yet  o'ertaxed 

By  the  imperial  rescript,  to  endure 

The  taunts  of  mimes,  the  old  indignities 

Of  freed  men,  merciless  in  novel  power, 

The  insolence  of  taskers  and  the  shame 

Of  late  dismissal  with  their  pittance,  when 

The  proud  patrician  deigned  to  bid  his  slave 

Cast  the  base  drachms  at  the  plebeian's  feet ! 

Ere  melted  the  wreathed  mists  from  isle  or  mount, 

City  or  lake,  Pompeii's  pinnacles 

Ascending  in  uncertain  grandeur  yet, 

The  artizan  went  forth  to  build  again 

The  fabrics  earthquakes  had  late  sported  with ; 

Doomed,  ere  tha  dial  rested  shadowless, 

To  cease  from  toil  forever  ! — and  the  sounds 

Of  early  servile  labour  multiplied 

Through  glimmering  arcades  and  noisome  courts, 

Thronged  ever  by  the  peasants  pomp  creates, 

As  the  bright  sungod  o'er  the  mountains  rose, 

And  his  broad  disk  poured  glory  over  earth. 

Late  from  their  holy  dreams  in  the  profound 
Of  their  proud  temples,  ne'er  by  foot  profane 
Invaded,  waked  the  pagan  oracles, 
The  ministers  of  mysteries  all  unrevealed, 

*  Probably  among  no  people,  not  even  the  mercenary  Africans  themselves,  who  are 
always  more  ready  to  sell  than  the  Christian  trafficker  is  to  buy,  was  the  condition  of 
slaves  so  utterly  hopeless  and  irreclaimable  as  in  the  republics  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
Their  vivid  jealousy  of  personal  privileges  peculiarly  fitted  them  to  tyrannize  over  every 
people  not  incorporated  within  their  chartered  dominions.  Nothing  is  so  cruel  as  boast 
ing  philanthropy ;  nothing  so  unjust  as  a  dominant  hierarchy  ;  nothing  so  capricious  and 
despotic  as  an  unrestrained  democracy. 


6  CANTO  II. 

Save  to  the  forgers  of  the  fictions— gazed 

Bewildered  on  the  amphorse  that  stood 

Beneath  their  sacred  stores*— and  turned,  once  more, 

To  matin  visions  of  deluding  faith, 

Processions  and  responses,  gorgeous  robes, 

Banquets,  and/ree  bequests  when  they  alone 

Stood  o'er  the  dying,  and  dominion  bought 

By  endless  cycles  of  hypocrisies. 

All  hierarchies,  howsoe'er  unlike 

In  ritual,  are  in  earthly  hope  the  same ; 

Pleasure,  their  idol :  ease,  their  ecstacy  ; 

Power,  their  ambition  ;  and  the  will  of  God, 

The  blasphemed  dictate  of  their  own  mad  lusts. 

The  virgin  dew  yet  on  the  verdure  hung, 

When,  one  by  one,  the  mourners  of  the  lost 

Stole  to  the  Street  of  Sepulchres  and  sat 

Beside  the  ashes  of  their  ancestors, 

Watching  the  beams  that  nevermore  would  greet 

The  perished,  and,  (they  thought  not,)  nevermore 

Pompeii  guide  to  her  festivities  ! 

Few,  on  this  mission  of  elysian  love, 

Left  Tyrian  couches  and  the  bliss  of  sense  ; 

Yet  they  were  blest  in  the  seraphic  gift 

Of  feeling,  which  in  solitude  is  heaven  ! 

Tombs  were  the  earliest  temples,  the  first  prayers 

Gushings  of  grief,  the  holiest  offerings, 

Tears  of  bereavement,  and  the  loveliest  hymns, 

Sighs  over  the  departed  ;  worship,  then, 

Rose  from  the  heart,  that  mid  these  simple  rites, 

Felt  no  delusion  or  vain  mystery: 

Urns  were  the  altars,  and  the  incense,  love. 

*  The  priests  of  Pompeii  were  no  believers  in  pres'  aclovved  Mohammedan  sobriety  or 
the  Genevan  doctrine  of  total  abstinence ;  but,  rather,  devout  apostles  of  good  fellowship, 
bonhnmmie  and  bienseanc",  whose  credenda  have  lacked  no  devotees  among  the  admini 
strators  of  a  very  different  religion.  Their  amphorae  or  wine  casks  were  always  amply 
supplied  by  votaries  who  did  not  doubt  that  their  spiritual  guides  possessed  the  same  pre 
rogatives  in  Tartarus  which  less  remote  exclusives  in  sanctity  assume  to  exercise  in 
Hades.  The  skeletons  of  many  priests,  on  the  excavation  of  Pompeii,  were  found  amidst 
the  relics  of  their  revel.  Can  we  suppose  that  even  the  ministers  of  a  degraded  supersti 
tion  and  a  most  lascivious  mythology  could  trust  in  the  protection  of  Jove  or  Osiris?  or 
must  we  rather  conclude  that  criminal  appetite  excluded  natural  fear  and  that  they  rea 
soned,  like  Pompey  on  his  last  journey — "  It  is  necessary  that  we  should  be  gluttons  and 
revellers,  but  it  is  not  necessary  (hat  we  should  live?" 


THE    LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII.  87 

The  sodden  pulse,  offered  by  humble  faith, 
Desiring  not  demanding,  far  outweighed 
Oblations  chosen  from  barbaric  spoils ; 
And  with  a  purer  purpose,  poverty 
Knelt  by  the  wayside  image  of  a  god 
Than  gorgeous  pontiffs  by  Olympian  shrines. 

When  sin  gains  sanction  and  the  heart  is  soiled 
By  unrebuked  and  customary  crime, 
The  tenderest  yearnings  of  the  bosom — love, 
With  its  dependence  and  delight — its  smile, 
Like  rifted  rose  leaves,  and  its  tear,  like  dew 
Shook  from  the  pinions  of  the  seraphim, 
Breathe  unaccepted  music ;  the  caress 
Of  childhood  hath  no  bliss — its  early  words 
And  looks  of  marvel  find  no  fellowship — 
For  the  evil  usages  of  life,  that  dwells 
But  in  the  glare  and  heat  of  midnight  pomp, 
Corrode,  corrupt  and  desecrate  all  love. 
Yet  some  preserve  the  vivid  thoughts — the  charms 
Of  household  sanctities  ;  and  one  such  now 
Rose  from  affection's  spotless  couch  and  bent 
O'er  the  angel  face  of  virgin  infancy  ; 
And  thus  her  gentle  and  blest  thoughts  found  words ; 
"  Thou  sleep'st  in  Love's  own  heaven,  my  child  !  that  brow 
No  guilt  hath  darkened  and  no  sorrow  trenched  : 
Those  lips,  which  through  thy  fragrant  breath  receive 
The  incense  hues  of  thy  sweet  heart,  no  gust 
Of  uttered  passion  hath  defiled  ;  thy  cheek 
Glows  with  elysian  health  and  holiness: 
And  all  thy  little  frame  seems  thrilling  now 
With  the  pure  visions  of  a  soul  skyborn. 
The  Lares  be  around  thee,  oh,  rny  child  ! 
For  never  yearned  Cybele  over  Jove 
With  transport  deeper  than  is  mine  o'er  thee  !" 
Then  o'er  her  bed  she  spread  the  drapery, 
Kissing  the  shut  lids  and  unsullied  brow, 
Where  the  mind  dreamed,  perchance,  of  bliss  foregone, 
And,  shading  with  her  byssus  robe  and  flowers 
The  sunbeams  from  the  sleeper,  with  a  step 
Soft  as  the  antelope's,  she  stole  and  knelt 
In  prayer  for  that  loved  one  at  Vesta's  shrine. 


88  CANTO    II. 

Breathing  their  bliss  in  melodies  of  love, 
Their  pictured  wings  fanning  the  ether,  flew 
The  songbirds,  and  the  groves  were  full  of  joy 
Too  pure  for  any  voice  but  music's,  when, 
Lifting  their  dim  eyes  to  the  blaze  of  day, 
Campania's  proud  patricians  deemed  the  hour 
So  far  removed  from  common  time  of  rest, 
That,  with  due  honour,  they  might  breathe  the  breeze, 
That  o'er  the  dimpled  waters  and  the  flowers, 
Since  the  first  tints  of  dawn,  had  played  like  thought 
Over  the  face  of  childhood — yet  bore  now 
The  vivid  heat  and  dense  effluvia 
Of  culminating  sun  and  marsh  exhaled. 
To  mask  the  treacheries  of  eye  and  lip 
Is  pride's  philosophy,  the  felon's  skill, 
The  code  of  kings,  the  priesthood's  mystic  creed, 
Unknown  to  commoners;  and  none  beheld, 
Save  the  bronze  lares,  revel's  quivering  eye, 
And  dull  brow  bound  with  iron,  or  the  face 
Of  matron  guilt  pallid  with  watch  and  waste, 
And  trembling  in  the  faintness  of  a  heart 
Wrecked  by  excess  of  passion,  yet  again 
Gasping  for  midnight  poison  !     Untrimmed  lamps, 
Sculptured  with  shapes  of  ribaldry  to  lure* 
Even  satiety  to  sin's  embrace, 
To  tempt  the  timid  and  inflame  the  inured, 
Stood  round  the  household  altar,  and  upon 
The  silken  couch  of  customary  crime 
Shed  the  pale,  sickly  light  of  vice  o'erworn. 
Oh,  that  lascivious  guilt  at  midnight  wore 
The  lurid  look,  the  loathing  shame  of  morn  ! 
Bracelets  of  gems,  enchanted  amulets, 
And  vases  wrought  with  wanton  images, 
And  frescoes,  picturing  the  satyr  joys 
Of  Jove  and  Hermes  and  the  Laurel  God, 
(For  the  old  divinities  were  human  crimes) 
And  fountains,  with  nude  naiads  twining  round 

*  The  sensualities  of  Pompeii  were  not  restricted  by  any  deference  to  decorum  even  in 
external  dissembling;  but  the  passions,  which  burned  in  their  bosoms,  were  too  graphi 
cally  represented  upon  their  customary  utensils.  The  secret  deposites  of  the  Museum 
Borbonico  at  Naples  will  illustrate  this  to  any  who  are  incredulous  of  the  noisome  excess 
to  which  sin  mav  be  extended. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT    OF    POMPEII.  89 

The  unveiled  tfitons,  with  a  maddened  sensd, 
And  groups  of  Paphians,  in  the  forest  dim, 
(Where  gloating  forms  lifted  the  filmy  robes 
Of  the  bacchantes  in  voluptuous  sleep,  ) 
Holding  their  revelries  with  gods  disguised, 
And  every  portraiture  of  pleasure  known 
To  them,  whose  whole  religion  was  excess, — » 
All,  in  the  chaos  of  the  morning,  flung 
Alluring  raptures  over  sated  sense 
And  sickened  passion,  uttering,  without  voice,- 
"  Ye  buy  Repentance  at  the  price  of  Hell !" 

Loathing  the  fiend  they  folded  to  their  hearts* 
The  madness  and  the  malady  of  life, 
The  languor  and  the  listlessness,  that  spring 
From  the  exhaustion  of  a  maniac  lust, 
The  masters  of  the  throng,  in  marble  baths 
And  Araby's  perfumes  and  cordial  cups, 
Sought  renovation  for  renewed  delights* 
Odours  and  thermal  waters  may  subdue 
The  maddening  fever  of  the  flesh,  but  Time 
Never  can  hush  the  muttering  lips  of  guilt, 
Nor  quell  Death's  agonies  which  guilt  inflicts.- 
The  Sybarite  from  Salmacis  arose* 
His  orgies  to  renew  with  Sin's  worst  zeal? 
But  Lethe  had  no  power  o'er  memories 
Of  broken  vows  and  imprecating  oaths 
Made  by  the  River  of  the  Dead,  what  time 
Cocytus  moaned  and  Phlegethon  upcast 
Its  lurid  gleams  o'er  torrent  chasms  of  gloom? 
Bidding  the  banished  reveller,  who  dared 
To  mock  the  Styx,  roam  by  its  blackened  shores 
Through  the  dark  endlessness  of  shame  and  woe  ! 

It  was  the  Harvest  Festival ;  the  corrt 
Of  Ceres  filled  the  garners,  and  the  vine 
Of  the  Mirth-Maker  from  the  winepress  pouredf 

*  Even  in  the  age  proverbial  for  its  effeminacy  and  vice,  the  Sybarites  were  quoted  as 
the  acme  of  examples  ;  and  the  waters  of  Salmacis,  by  some  mysterious  properties,  were 
considered  capable  of  restoring  the  frame,  exhausted  by  profligacy,  to  its  original  vigour. 

No  one  who  had  broken  an  oath  made  by  the  Styx  (which  not  even  the  gods  dared  to 
infringe)  could  be  permitted  to  drink  of  Lethe  or  oblivion  of  the  evils  and  sufferings 
which  he  had  been  doomed  to  bear  for  his  crimes. 

12 


90  CANTO    II. 

Divine  Falernian  ;  and  the  autumnal  feast, 

The  Gathering  of  the  Fruits,  to    all  the  gods, 

(Through  the  Idsean  Mother,  source  of  all) 

Was  dedicated  with  a  soul  of  joy. 

In  every  temple  the  proud  priesthood  put 

Their  purple  vestures  and  tiaras  on 

For  the  solemnities  they  loved  to  hold, 

And  masked  the  pride  of  most  unholy  power 

Beneath  an  austere  aspect  and  a  faith 

That  spared  no  violator  of  their  laws. 

With  citharse  and  trumps  and  cymbals'  clang, 

And  blasts  of  buccinse  and  softened  strains 

Of  flute  and  dulcimer,  came  all  the  pomp 

In  its  sublimest  pageantry;  the  god 

Of  light  gleaming  on  banners  wrought  with  forms 

Picturing  theogenies  or  bridal  rites, 

Or  earthliest  deeds  of  the  divinities. 

First  walked  Jove's  pontiff  in  his  diadem, 

His  crowned  and  sceptred  standard  fleckered  o'er 

With  lightning  bolts  and  tempest  gloom,  upborne 

By  popse  weaponed  for  the  sacrifice. 

Then  in  the  mazes  of  a  wanton  dance, 

Lifting  the  thyrsus  crowned  with  ivy  wreaths, 

And  muttering  banquet  hymns,  the  priests  of  mirth, 

With  antic  faces  and  wild  steps,  leapt  on. 

Next,  with  a  golden  ensign,  vales  and  hills 

Along  its  borders,  filled  with  flocks  and  herds, 

And  tall  sheaves,  in  the  centre,  slowly  trod 

The  ministers  of  Saturn's  Daughter  blest. 

But,  dimming  all  by  splendour  only  known 

In  Egypt's  voiceless  mysteries,  above 

The  long  array  now  towered  the  gonfalon 

Of  Isis,  glowing  with  devices  Shame 

Shrunk  to  behold,  the  shapes  of  Earth's  worst  sins* 

Deified  fiends  !  and  with  the  lozel's  smiles, 

Her  crowned  pastophori,  proud  of  their  shame, 

*  The  pamylia  and  phallephoria.  The  character  of  the  Romans  under  the  emperors 
renders  it  unnecessary  for  me  to  create  any  reluctance  on  their  part  to  gaze  upon  objects 
in  public  processions,  which,  in  other  communities,  would  never  have  been  imagined. 
Greece  took  her  religion  from  Egypt — Rome  hers  from  Greece — and  both  had  public 
temples  dedicated  to  the  Aspasias,  Galateas  and  Campaspes  of  the  age.  The  pastophori 
or  priests  of  Isis,  therefore,  felt  themselves  much  at  home  in  Pompeii. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT    OF  POMPEII.  91 

Waved  round  the  ribald  picture,  as  they  passed 

The  mansions  of  their  votaries,  and  maids 

And  matrons  hailed  it  from  their  porticoes. 

Apollo,  from  his  eyes  of  ecstacy 

And  lips  of  bloom  filling  the  bosomed  air 

With  oracles ;  and  Hermes,  in  the  embrace 

Of  Iris,  winging  the  blue  heavens  of  love, 

With  his  enchanted  rod  pointing  to  earth ; 

Vesta,  'mid  her  Penates  welcoming  ; 

The  heavenly  Venus,  with  her  starlight  eyes, 

Veiled  brow  and  girded  cestus,  looking  up 

To  the  pure  azure,  spotless  as  her  soul ! 

Followed  by  the  more  worshipped  Cyprian  queen, 

So  shadowed  by  her  draperies  that  guilt 

Revelled  in  beauty  mocked  with  robes  to  tempt; 

The  Wargod,  with  the  ancilia*  and  the  plumes 

Of  gory  fight,  whose  triumph  was  despair  ; 

Proud  Pallas,  with  stern  lips,  and  stainless  brow, 

Surmounted  by  its  olive  wreath,  and  eyes 

That  never  quailed  in  their  calm  chastity ; 

Cotytto — the  earth-passion's  idol — 'mid 

The  unclothed  Baptae,  painted  with  designs 

To  startle  e'en  sear'd  sense  into  a  blush ; 

The  Seaking  with  his  trident ;  the  castout 

And  shapeless  Forger  of  the  lightning  bolts; 

The  Deity  of  Erebus,  with  her 

He  bore  from  Enna,  and  his  son,  the  god 

Of  gold  ;  Diana,  in  her  treble  forms, 

Magician,  huntress,  virgin  of  the  skies  ; 

Hirsute  and  pranksy  Pan,  amid  his  fauns ; 

Nymphs,  dryads,  oreads  and  tritons; — all 

The  beautiful,  or  dread,  or  uncouth  thoughts 

Imagination  made  divinities, 

In  lengthened  march,  along  Pompeii's  streets, 

Tow'rd  the  Pantheon,  in  their  triumph  moved. 

Behind  the  glittering  crowd,  the  hecatomb 
Of  victims,  led  by  golden  cords,  moved  on. 

*The  sacred  shields  of  Rome — borne  in  the  processions  of  Mars,  who  of  all  the  mon 
strous  idols  was  the  most  worshipped  because  the  least  merciful.  Is  it  not  a  singular 
anomaly  of  the  human  mind  that  in  every  creed  the  god  of  vengeance  has  always  been  the 
most  opulent  and  popular  ? 


92  CANTO    II. 

To  every  god  the  sacrifice  was  meet ; 
The  dove  to  Venus,  and  the  bull  to  Mars  j 
To  Dian,  the  proud  stag-r-the  lawless  goat, 
That  tears  the  vine  leaves,  to  the  deity 
Of  the  gay  banquet :  and  their  horns,  o'erlaid 
With  gold,  tossed  haughtily  amid  the  crowd, 
As,  rolling  their  undreading  eyeballs  round, 
They  glared  defiance  and  amazement,  mute 
Yet  merciless  when  fit  occasion  came. 
(<  An  evil  omen  !  lo  !  the  victims  strive, 
And  we  must  drag  them  to  the  altar  !"*  said 
The  trembling  augur—"  what  most  dismal  grief 
And  destiny  o'erhangs  to  whelm  us  now !" 
Yet  onward  surged  the  multitudes,  with  boughs 
Of  olive  in  their  hands  and  laurel  crowns, 
And  Zeian  barley  spears  folded  in  wreaths 
By  locks  from  richest  fleeces,  as  they  passed 
The  temple  images,   with  practised  skill, 
Bending  their  foreheads  on  expanded  palms. 
And  onward,  o'er  the  Appian  Way,-)-  the  host 
Of  mitred,  robed  and  bannered  priests  drew  nigh 
The  Fane  of  all  the  Gods,  and,  at  a  word, 
The  music  softened  to  a  solemn  strain, 
The  measured  voices  of  the  holy  chiefs 
Ascended  in  a  song,  and  as  they  ceased, 
The  people,  like  the  ocean's  myriad  waves, 
Raised  their  responses  to  the  harvest  prayer. 

THE  P^AN  OF  THE  PANTHEON. 

STROPHE. 

Wielder  of  Worlds,  that  round  Elysium  dance 
Beneath  the  brightness  of  thy  sleepless  eye, 
Who  from  the  bosom  of  the  flame  dost  glance, 
And  feePst  our  time  in  thine  Eternity  ! 
Thou  deathless  Jove ! 
Monarch  of  awe  and  Love  ! 
Look  from  the  radiant  height  of  thy  dominion 
On  thine  adorers  now, 

*  Nothing  could  be  more  ominous  of  evil  than  any  resistance  or  even  reluctance  on  the 
part  of  the  victims  to  he  sacrificed.  That  the  offering  might  be  auspicious  it  was  neces 
sary  that  the  animal  should  seem  to  rejoice  in  its  sacred  death,. 

•f-  More  properly,  the  Via  Consularis. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII.  03 

And  waft  thy  smile  on  Hermes'  rainbow  pinion, 
And  bend  thine  awful  brow  ! 

Immortal  and  supreme! 
With  vows  and  victims  to  thy  shrine  we  come, 

With  hearts  that  breathe  the  incense  of  their  praise, 
And  first  fruits  borne  from  each  protected  home, 

To  bless  thee  for  the  blessings  of  our  days  ! 
Have  we  not  heard  thy  spirit  in  the  dreams, 
That  glance  o'er  thought  like  morn's  young  light  on  streams  1 
In  visions,  watched  thy  bird  of  triumph  near 
The  azure  realms  of  thine  ethereal  sphere, 
Waiting  behests  of  victories  and  powers 

And  counsels  from  thy  throne  ! 
Hath  not  thy  thunder  voice,  the  summer  showers, 

The  lightning  spirit,  all  thine  own, 
Bade  strew  the  exulting  earth  with  fruits  and  flowers  1 

Therefore,  we  render  up 
The  spotless  victim  from  the  wood 

And  household  field,  and  from  libation  cup 
Pour  the  rich  vine's  unmingled  blood. 
Accept  our  praise  and  prayer, 
Sceptred    Immortal  of  the  chainless  Air  ! 

Chorus. — King  of  Elysium !  hear,  oh  hear 
From  thine  Olympian  seat ! 

To  priest  and  people  bow  thy  sovereign  ear ! 
We  dare  not  see  thy  face,  but  kiss  thy  sacred  feet ! 

ANTISTROPHE, 

God  of  the  Mornlight  i  when  the  orient  glows 
With  thy  triumphant  smile,  and  ether  feels 
The  Hours  and  Seasons,  'mid  their  clouds  of  rose, 
Swept  o'er  its  bosom  on  the  living  wheels 

Of  thy  proud  car, 

When,  through  the  abysses  of  the  heaven,  each  star 
Before  the  splendour  of  thy  spirit  fades 
Like  insect  glimmerings  in  the  noontide  glades  ! 

Hail,  radiant  Phrebus  !  lord 
Of  love  and  life,  of  wisdom,  music,  mirth, 
At  whose  resistless  word 


94  CANTO    II. 

Being  and  bliss  dance  o'er  the  blossomed  earth ! 

O  Pythian  Victor,  hear ! 
Pseonian  Healer  of  our  ills,  behold  ! 

Breather  of  Oracles  !  thy  sons  draw  near 
To  feel  the  music  of  thy  lyre  unfold, 
As  shadows  change  before  the  morn  to  gold, 
The  sealed-up  volume  of  our  darkened  minds. 

Breathe  on  Favonian  winds, 
And  from  the  effluence  of  immortal  light 
Strew  our  dim  thoughts  with  rays, 
Till,  sorrowing  o'er  this  failing  praise, 
We  know,  with  burning  hearts,  to  sing  thy  deeds  aright ! 

God  of  the  harp  and  bow, 
Whose  thoughts  are  sunbeam  arrows,  hear ! 

Giver  of  flowers  !  dissolver  of  the  snow  ! 
Accept  our  gifts  and  let  thy  sons  draw  near  ! 

Chorus. — lo  Psean  !  from  thy  sphere, 

King  of  prophets,  hear,  oh  hear  ! 
From  hallowed  fount  and  hoary  hill, 

And  haunt  of  song  and  sunlight  near, 
With  inspirations  come  and  every  bosom  fill. 

E  P  O  D  E. 

Reveal  the  shrine  !  wave  ye  the  laurel  boughs, 

Dipped  in  the  fount  that  purifies  the  heart! 
Unsullied  Dian  !  breathe  our  holiest  vows  ! 
Storm-crowned  Poseidon  !  to  the  imperial  mart 
Thou  bearest  the  Median  gems, 
And  loftiest  Asian  diadems, 
And  o'er  thy  billowy  world  we  pour  our  praise ! 

Uranian  Venus  !  let  the  vesper  rays 
Of  thy  beatitude  around  us  float  and  dwell, 

Till  thine  ethereal  loveliness  o'ercomes 
The  stains  and  shadows  of  thy  mocker  here, 
And  high  the  Vinegod's  song  may  swell 
Among  the  shrines  of  Vesta's  hallowed  home 

Without  a  following  tear  ; 
And  Isis'  mystic  rites  may  thrill 
The  soul  with  Plato's  most  celestial  vision, 
And  Pallas  in  her  grandeur  fill 


THE   LAST    NIGHT  OF    POMPEII.  95 

The  heart  of  Ceres  with  her  mind  elysian  ! 

Blesser  with  bounty,  hail ! 
What  but  thy  gifts  can  mortals  offer  thee  ? 

Smile  on  the  banquet  and  the  song  and  tale 
The  Dionysius  breathes  to  thy  divinity  ! 

Hail,  all  ye  gods  of  heaven,  earth,  wave  and  wind ! 
Ye  oceans  from  the  streams  of  human  mind  ! 

With  spotless  garments  and  unsandalled  feet, 
Purified  bodies  and  undaring  souls, 
We  the  Pantheon  tread  !  oh,  meet, 
Meet  your  adorers  !  lo  !  the  incense  rolls 
Along  Corinthian  columns  and  wrought  roof, 

Like  Manes  wandering  o'er  the  fields  of  bliss! 
Chill  not  our  worship  with  a  stern  reproof! 
Hail,  all  ye  gods  !  we  worship  with  a  kiss ! 

Chorus. — From  shore  and  sea  and  vale  and  mountain, 
Hail,  ye  divinities  of  weal  or  woe  ! 

Olympus,  Ida,  grotto,  fountain, — 
We  in  your  Pantheon  kneel — around  your  altars  bow  ! 

Through  the  bronze  gates,  sculptured  with  legends  feigned 
Of  the  theocracies,  the  pageant  swept, 
A  thousand  feet  dancing  the  song,  and  paused 
Around  the  shrines  they  dragged  the  victims  up. 
Then,  bending  from  Jove's  altar  to  the  east, 
The  Pontiff  raised  the  golden  chalice,  crowned 
With  wine  unmingled,  and,  amid  the  shower 
Of  green  herbs,  myrrh,  obelia*  and  vine  leaves, 
Poured  out  the  brimmed  libation  on  the  head 
Of  the  awaiting  sacrifice,  from  flocks 
Chosen  for  beauty,  and  young  quickening  life. 
Then  with  a  laurel  branch,  he  sprinkled  all, 
Circling  the  altar  thrice  ;    the  heralds,  then, 
Cried,  "  Who  is  here  ?"  and  all  the  multitudes 
Like  the  chafed  billows  answered,  "  Many  and  Good !" 

*  A  peculiar  sort  of  sacrificial  cakes. 

It  was  held  unholy  to  offer  up  any  maimed  or  imperfect  creature,  and  herein  the 
Judean  ecclesiastical  enactments  agreed  with  those  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  All 
their  animal  sacrifices  were  "  chosen  for  beauty  and  young  quickening  life." 

Any  blemish  inflicted  by  the  Huntress  or  Py'thius,  by  Sun  or  Moon  namely,  was  deemed 
a  particular  offence  to  the  deity. 


96  CANTO     II. 

"  Breathe  not  the  words  of  omen  !"  "  Lo  !  we  stand 
Like  Harpocrates  in  the  vestibule  !" 
The  high  Priest,  'mid  the  wreathing  incense^  raised 
The  prayer;  the  augur,  with  his  wandf  marked  out 
The  heavens  ;  the  aruspices,  with  eyes  of  awe, 
Behind  the  slayers  of  the  sacrifice 
Stood  gazing  on  the  victims.     "Hath  no  spot* 
No  arrow  from  the  Huntress'  bow  or  dart 
Of  Pythius  stained  the  offering  T"  said  the  priest 
"  'Tis  fair  and  perfect,  and  unblemished  stands 
To  give  its  body  to  the  Harvest  Queen 
And  all  the  gods  ! — We  pour  into  its  ear* 
The  holy  water — yet  it  doth  not  nod  ! 
We  bend  the  neck — -it  struggles  for  the  flight  ! 
Dismal  presages  !  omens  of  despair  !" 
The  Pontiff  quailed,  not  in  the  dread  of  gods, 
(  His  sole  divinity  was  his  own  power) 
But  fear  of  superstition's  evil  thought, 
As  from  the  fluctuating  host  arose 
A  smothered  shriek  of  terrour  ;  and,  in  tones' 
Quick,  sfern,  and  deep  as  the  exploded  bolt, 
Commanded — "  Strike  !  the  wrath  of  Jove  attends 
The  impious  delay  !" — and,  hushed  as  heaven 
When  broods  the  hurricane  on  cloudy  deeps, 
The  worshippers  stood  trembling  as  they  looked,— * 
The  agonies  and  ecstacies  of  fear 
And  hope,,  in  stormlike  glimpses,  shadowing  o'er 
The  broken  waves  of  faces-^-on  the  shrine, 
And  saw  the  axe  of  the  cultrarius  fall ! 
Maddened  and  bleeding,  yet  not  slain,  the  ram 
Flung  back  his  twisted  horns — sent  up  a  sound 
Of  anguish,  and  in  frenzy  on  the  air 
Springing,  in  his  fierce  death^hroes,  fell  amidst 
Dismayed  adorers  and  gasped  out  his  life* 
Shrieks  o'er  the  panting  silence  rose  and  filled 
The  temple,  and  in  horrour  shrunk  the  throng 
As  o'er  the  accursed  rites  pale  Nemesis, 
Leading  the  Destinies,  had  come  to  blast 
Tne  sacrifice  with  sacrilege ;  but  now 

*  Lituus. 


THE    LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPKII.  97 

The  Pontiff's  voice,  bidding  his  lictors  quell 
The  tumult,  called  another  victim  up 
And  stillness  brooded  o'er  the  stricken  crowd. 
Gashing  the  lifted  neck,  the  popoe  held 
The  brazen  ewers  beneath  the  bubbling  blood, 
And  white  robed  flamens  bade  the  people  note 
The  happiest  augury — without  a  sigh 
Or  tremor,  seen  or  heard,  the  victim  died. 
Then  flayed  and  opened  they  the  offering, 
Lifting  the  vitals  on  their  weapons'  points. 
With  writhing  brows,  pale  lips  and  ashen  cheeks, 
And  failing  hearts,  in  horror's  panic  voice, 
The  aruspices  proclaimed  the  prodigies. 
"  The  entrails  palpitate — the  liver's  lobes 
Are  withered,  and  the  heart  hath  shrivelled  up !" 
Groans  rose  from  living  surges  round ;  yet  loud 
The  High  Priest  uttered — "  Lay  them  on  the  fire  !" 
'T  was  done:  and  wine  and  oil  poured  amply  o'er, 
Yet  still  the  sacrificer  wildly  cried — 
"  Woe  unto  all !  the  wandering  fires  hiss  up 
Through  the  black  vapours — lapping  o'er  the  flesh 
They  burn  not,  but  abandon  !  ashes  fill 
The  temple,  whirled  upon  the  wind  that  waves 
The  flame  through  smothering  clouds,  towards  the  Mount, 
That,  since  first  light,  hath  hurled  its  lava  forth  ! 
Hark!  the  wild  thunder  bursts  upon  the  right! 
Ravens  and  vultures  pass  us  on  the  left  J 
Fly,  votaries  !  from  the  wrath  of  heaven,  oh,  fly  ! 
The  Vestals  shriek,  the  sacred  fire  is  dead, 
The  gods  deny  our  prayers  !  fly  to  your  homes  !" 
From  the  Pantheon  struggled  the  vast  throng, 
And  rushed  dismayed  unto  their  household  hearths, 
While  from  Vesuvius  swelled  a  pyramid 
Of  smoke  streaked  o'er  with  gory  flame,  and  sounds. 
Like  voices  howling  curses  deep  in  earth, 
From  its  abysses  rose,  and  ashes  fell 
Through  the  thick  panting  air  in  burning  clouds,. 
All,  save  the  haughty  Pontiff,  mocking  fear, 
The  Temple  had  abandoned,  but  he  sate 
On  the  high  altar,  'mid  the  trophied  pomp 
Of  vain  oblations  to  the  sculptured 

13 


98  CANTO  II. 

Breathing  his  scorn  and  imprecations  on 
The  dastard  people  and  the  blasted  rites, 
When,  heaving  as  on  billows,  while  a  moan 
Passed  o'er  the  statues,  the  proud  temple  swayed, 
As  't  were  an  evening  cloud,  from  side  to  side, 
Rocking  beneath  the  earthquake  that  convulsed 
Sea,  shore  and  mountain,  at  its  hollow  voice, 
Hurled  into  ruin  ;  and  his  lips  yet  glowed 
With  execrations  on  the  sacrifice, 
When  from  its  pedestal,  bending  with  brow 
Of  vengeance  and  fixed  lips  that  almost  spake, 
Jove's  giant  image  fell  and  crushed  to  earth 
The  Thunderer's  mocker  in  his  temple  home  ? 

Like  an  earth-shadowing  cypress,  o'er  the  skies 
Lifting  its  labyrinth  of  leaves,  the  boughs 
Of  molten  brass,  the  giant  trunk  of  flame, 
The  breath  of  the  volcano's  Titan  heart 
Hung  in  the  heavens  ;  and  every  maddened  pulse 
Of  the  vast  mountain's  earthquake  bosom  hurled 
Its  vengeance  on  the  earth  that  gasped  beneath. 
Yet  mortals,  then,  the  adored  Immortals  deemed 
Deified  passions,  swayed,  like  summer  leaves, 
By  orison  or  chanted  hymn,  from  deeds, 
Ere  time  had  birth,  appointed.     So,  within 
Their  secret  chambers  and  the  silent  groves, 
While  Ruin's  eye  glared  in  the  living  bolt 
With  wrath  and  scorn  on  their  unhaflowed  rites, 
The  doomed  idolators,  abashed  yet  fain 
To  win  redemption  from  suspended  wrath, 
Round  their  Penates  cowrered,  while  magians  came, 
Sybils  and  sorcerers,  to  mock  the  mind 
With  mystic  divinations,  and  reveal, 
What  prophets  need  not  show,  folly  and  guilt. 
To  avert  the  doom,  now  Egypt's  muttered  spells 
And  magic  incantations  summoned  up 
Earth  demons  to  unfold  the  future's  deeds  ; 
And  thus  the  weird  Canidia  of  the  Time 
Invoked  the  Spirits  of  the  Air  to  aid. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 


THE   SYBIL'S   INVOCATION. 


From  the  hill  forest's  gloorn, 
Where  the  Lemures  dwell ; 

From  the  depth  of  the  tomb, 
Whence  the  soul  parts  to  hell; 
From  the  dim  caves  of  death 
Where  the  coil'd  serpent  sleeps  not, 

And  the  lone  deadly  heath 
Where  the  night  spirit  weeps  not; 

From  the  shore  where  the  wreck  lies, 
And  the  surge  o'er  the  dead  ; 

From  the  heart  of  the  dark  skies, 
Where  the  tempest  is  hred  ; 
Ye  Demigods,  hear! 
Ye  pale  shadows,  ascend  ! 
And  ye  demons,  appear! 
To  drink  the  bann'd  cup  ere  the  weird 
rites  shall  end  ! 

From  the  ocean  deeps  come, 
Where  the  coral  groves  glimmer, 

In  your  trailed  robes  of  gloom, 
Making  Terror's  face  dimmer ; 

From  the  crag-pass  of  slaughter, 
On  the  voiced  air  of  death, 

Come,  shed  o'er  your  daughter 
Your  oracle  breath ! 


On  the  night  vapour  stealing 
From  the  marsh  o'er  the  mountain; 

On  the  bland  air  revealing 
No  doom  by  the  fountain  ; 
Ye  Demigods,  come ! 
Ye  pale  shadows,  ascend  ! 
And  ye  demons,  from  gloom  ! 
To  drink  the  bann'd  cup  ere  the  weird 
rites  shall  end ! 

Be  ye  bless'd  or  accursed, 
Be  ye  famished  or  sated, 

In  pale  Orcus  the  worst, 
In  Elysium  the  fated  ; 

If  ye  roam  by  the  shore 
Which  ye  never  may  leave, 

Or  in  nectar  adore 
Where  ye  never  can  grieve ; 

Be  ye  gross  and  malign 
Or  elysian  as  air — 

Come  forth  and  divine 
What  the  future  may  bear! 
Ye  Demigods,  come! 
Ye  pale  shadows,  ascend  ! 
And  ye  demons,  from  gloom  ! 
To  drink  the  bann'd  cup  ere  the  weiid 
rites  shall  end  ! 


But,  'mid  the  darkened  necromantic  haunts 
Of  worse  fiends  than  the  evoked,  no  voice  replied. 
Then,  moulding  effigies  to  suit  her  hate, 
And  dropping  venom  in  each  pictured  pore, 
The  Sybil,  with  dishevelled  serpent  locks 
And  Lamia  n  features,  bade  the  fiend  of  fire 
Unroll  the  ritual  of  hell,  and  read 
Revealings  of  the  Destinies — and  then, 
She  drank  from  the  bann'd  skullcup  poison  draughts, 
Pledging  the  damned  !  yet  Silence  looked  reply. 


100  CANTO    I. 

And  each  Promethean  divination  brought*     . 
Nor  shadow  nor  response  ;  the  mirrored  glass 
Returned  no  image  ;  the  drowned  ring  sent  up 
No  echo  ;  whirling  gusts  effaced  the  forms 
Of  letters  writ  in  ashes  ;  magic  gems 
No  longer  kept  their  power;  the  daphne  burned 
Withou-t  a  sound  ;  and  every  poison  herby 
Though  with  unearthly  skill  distilled,  no  more, 
Like  Nessus'  robe  and  wild  Medea's  gift, 
Dispersed  the  agonies  of  maniac  deaths. 

Restless  in  doubt,  the  human  mind  hath  sought 
Knowledge  in  every  hour  of  time,  through  tears, 
Want,  anguish,  madness,  solitude  and  death. 
Like  the  lost  bird  from  its  sole  refuge  sent 
Forth  o'er  the  drown'd  world,  hovering  o'er  the  verge 
Of  the  eternal  ocean,  from  whose  depths 
Earth's  ghastly  spectres  rise  to  mock  at  hope, 
The  spirit  follows  through  forbidden  paths 
The  meteor  of  its  own  vain  thought,  till  Death 
Shrouds,  palls  and  sepulchres  the  throbbing  dust. 

Vain  were  petitions  murmured  to  the  gods 
Priapus  and  Cunina  to  dissolve 
The  spells  of  Fascinators ;  the  evil  eye 
Of  the  Illyrian  or  Triballif  sent 
Its  wonted  glance  into  the  trembling  breast, 
Possessing,  as  they  feigned,  the  soul  with  fiends. 
Vainly,  they  wore  baccharis  wreaths — in  vain, 
Their  jasper,  rhamn  or  laurel  amulets 
On  brow  or  bosom  hung !  The  magi  dreamed. 


Scorned  thus  by  demon  and  by  deity, 
Yet  by  worst  means  to  know  the  worst  resolved, 
The  priestled  multitude,  e'er  then,  as  now, 

*  See  Potter's  Antiquities,  Van  Hammer,  etc.  for  the  various  superstitious  observances 
of  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  In  the  scene  of  the  sacrifice  I  have  introduced  evil  omens- 
such  as  the  Romans  feared  in  their  height  of  power — throughout  the  ceremonial. 

-j-  The  Barbarian  inhabitants  of  Illyricum,  Thrace  and  Mcesia  were  held,  by  the  co:n 
mon  superstition  of  the  age,  to  be  sorcerers  and  magicians ;  and  various  talismans  01 
amulets  were  worn  to  ward  off  the  dreadful  influences  of  The  Evil  Eye.  It  is  humiliat 
ing  to  perceive  how  little  the  common  minds  of  our  own  day  are  exalted  above  those  o: 
heathen  ignorance  and  irreligion. 


THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF 

Slaves  to  the  fears  their  crimes  create,  devote 

To  Isis'  shrine  of  shame  and  godless  priests 

Pompeii's  loveliest  virgin* — in  the  bud 

Of  innocence  and  beauty,  love  and  joy, 

By  men  most  evil  doomed  to  die,  that  Fate, 

Through  her  prevailing  blood,  may  speak  their  doom. 

Alas  !  must  Death,  from  his  pale  realms  of  fear, 

Breathe  on  that  beautiful  and  radiant  brow 

And  leave  it  blasted  :  on  the  blossomed  lips, 

Whence  music  gushed  in  streams  of  rainbow  thought, 

And  chill  them  into  breathlessness  and  gloom  1 

That  vermil  cheek — those  eyes,  where  thoughts  repose, 

Like  clustered  stars  on  the  blue  autumn  skies, 

That  head  of  beauty  and  that  heart  of  love — 

Oh,  must  they  languish,  moulder,  and  depart, 

Without  <i  sigh,  from  the  sweet  earth  they  loved  ? 

Nought  may  the  grief,  wrath,  agony,  despair 

Of  friends  or  kindred — nought  the  holiest  laws 

Of  Love — avail  to  shield  the  victim  maid  ; 

The  Priest  will  have  his  sacrifice,  though  Earth 

And  Heaven  shriek  out — 'Tis  Lust's  own  sacrilege/ 

Ne'er  hath  the  bigot,  whatsoe'er-hts  crownf 

Cidaris,  mitre,  oak  or  laurel  wreath, 

Spared,  having  power  to  torture.     Ne'er  the  slave 

Of  superstition  slackened  in  his  zeal 

Of  loving  God  by  loathing  humankind. 

Weep  with  the  crocodile — embrace  the  asp — 

Doubt  not  the  avalanche  of  ages — meet 

The  famished  wolPs  sardonic  smile — and  sleep 

*  Human  sacrifices  were  not  uncommon  during  the  earlier  periods  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  history  ;  and  I  cast  no  additional  discredit  upon  the  ancient  character  of  heathen 
ism,  by  representing  the  disappointed  consulters  of  the  gods  putting  in  action  their  canni 
bal  ferocities.  Iphigenia  and  Jephtha's  daughter  illustrate  Grecian  mythology  and  Jewish 
vows. 

j-  I  appeal  to  all  history,  civil,  ecclesiastical  and  profane.  Persecution  is  not  exclusive; 
give  preponderance  to  any  sect  or  faction  and  it  will  tyrannize ;  the  faggot  would  be 
lighted,  1  he  dungeon  filled,  the  deathaxe  red.  The  civil  power  would  collude  with  the 
church  as  it  has  always  done,  when  the  latter  claimed  the  prerogatives  of  heaven  to 
exempt  it  from  human  accountability — because  superstitious  ignorance  fears  more  the 
anathemas  of  a  priesthood  than  the  agonies  and  blood  of  a  thousand  victims.  Repre 
sentations  of  eternal  punishments  due  to  those  who  indulge  humanity,  by  sparing  the 
proscribed,  the  heretics,  namely — have  influenced  mankind  far  more  than  the  view  of 
nations  banished  and  provinces  depopulated  by  the  relentless  malignity  of  some  Torque- 
mada  of  paynimrie  or  Christendom.  Factions  and  sects,  in  politics  and  religion,  never 
yet  won  anything  but  ruin  and  disgrace,  yet  they  are  perpetuated  and  multiplied  as  the 
world  wears  to  waste  ! 


10$ 


CANTO    II. 


Beneath  the  upas — but  believe  not  man, 
Who  clothes  the  Demon  in  a  seraph's  robe. 

With  hurried  footfalls  o'er  the  lava  walks,* 

Casting  quick  glances  tow'rd  the  Mount  of  Flame, 

The  vassal  worshippers  of  Isis  passed, 

And  the  proud  temple  gates  behind  them  closed. 

Then  from  the  altar  of  the  Idol  came 

The  crowned  hierophant,  in  robes  o'erwrought 

With  mystic  symbols,  emblems  of  a  power 

Invisible,  yet  everywhere  supreme, 

As  the  air  that  shrouds  the  glaciers,  and,  like  that, 

Waked  to  annihilate,  by  one  low  voice. 

Lifting  his  dusky  hand,  gleaming  with  gems, 

He  waved  the  throng  to  worship,  with  hushed  lips, 

And,  with  a  gesture,  bidding  neophytes 

Come  forth,  and  raise  the  victim,  bound  and   stretched 

On  the  Mosaic  floor,  in  horror's  arms, 

With  a  hyaena's  step,  through  pillar'd  aisles, 

Dim,  still  and  awful,  to  the  vaulted  crypt 

Of  gloom  and  most  unhallowed  sacrifice 

He  led  the  bearers  of  the  victim  maid. 

One  shuddering  farewell — one  wild  shriek  gushed, 

And  then  in  gloom  her  hyacinthine  hair 

Vanished — and  from  the  veiled  recesses  rose 

The  music  of  the  sistrum,f  and  strange  gleams 

Of  violet  and  crimson  light  along 

The  shrine  and  statues  flitted  momently 

And  faded  ;  and  mysterious  phantoms  glanced 

O'er  the  far  skirting  corridors,  and  left 

The  awed  mind  wildered  with  a  doubting  sense 

Of  silence  broken  by  what  was  not  sound, 

Nor  breathings  of  a  living  heart — nor  tones 

Of  forest  leaves  nor  lapses  of  the  wind — 

But  a  dread  haunting  of  a  sightless  fear 

*  The  streets  of  Pompeii  were  paved  with  blocks  of  lava ;  and  the  audacious  apathy, 
which  the  inhabitants  manifested  amidst  the  threatenings  of  Vesuvius,  may  be  ascribed 
to  their  familiaiity  with  earthquakes  and  volcanoes.  The  wretched  inhabitants  ofPortici, 
Torre  del  Greco  and  other  exposed  villages  are,  at  this  day,  as  unapprehensive  of  the 
peril  that  has  overhung  them  since  their  birth,  as  were  the  Pompeiians  at  their  death-hour. 
Cities  buried  in  lava  or  ashes  may  lie  beneath  even  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii. 

j-A  stringed  instrument  peculiar  to  the  mysterious  rites  of  Isis,  which,  like  most  other 
mysteries,  concealed  the  :n'.'«t  nefarious1  practices. 


THE   LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII.  103 

Of  unformed  p3ril — a  crushed  thought,  that  through 
The  twilight  dimness  of  the  fane  o'erhung 
Gigantic  beings  of  diluvian  realms, 
Voiceless  and  viewless,  yet  endowed  with  might 
To  rend  the  mortal  breather  of  a  sigh. 
Down  the  chill,  dusky  granite  steps  the  priest 
Guided  the  virgin  sacrifice  ;  above, 
The  massy  and  barr'd  vault  door  shut ;  and  Night, 
Shown  in  its  ghastly  terrors  by  wild  rays 
Of  many  tinctured  lights,  fell  on  the  heart 
Of  the  devoted,  desolated  maid. 
Through  still  descending  labyrinths,  where  coiled 
All  loathsome  creatures,  and  dark  waters  dripped 
With  a  deep,  sullen  sound  like  pulses  heard 
By  captives  dying  in  their  dungeon  tomb, 
The  Egyptian  glided  hurriedly  and  still. 
Then  o'er  a  green  lagoon,  whose  festered  flood 
Flung  back  a  deathsome  glare  as  the  lights  sunk 
On  its  dead  surface,  stretching  into  gloom, 
They,  in  a  mouldered  barque,  went  silently. 
The  plated  crocodile,  on  the  earth  and  pool 
Suspended,  yawn'd  his  sluggish  jaws  and  looked 
Upon  the  priest  with  fawning  earnestness; 
He  gazed  upon  the  victim  and  passed  by 
And  the  loathed  reptile  dreamed  of  coming  feasts. 
Rugged  and  spiral  grew  the  pathway  ;  bats, 
Waving  the  spectre  lights,  winged  through  the  vaults, 
Startled  yet  welcoming;  and  serpents  lanced 
Their  quivering  tongues  of  venom  forth  and  hissed 
Their  salutations;  and  the  lizards  crept 
Along  the  cold,  wet  ridges  of  the  caves ; 
And  oft  the  maiden's  agonizing  eyes 
Beheld  in  niches  or  sarcophagi 
Mortality's  abhorred  resemblances, 
With  folded  serpents  sculptured  overhead  ; 
And  oft  the  feet  of  the  familiars  struck 
Strewn  relics  of  the  victims  offered  here  ! 

Winding  through  tangled  passages— her  brain 
O'erfraught  with  the  still  horror — for  no  sound 
Lived  through  the  endless  caverns — thought  and  sense 


104  CANTO  II. 

Of  being  fled  from  the  doomed  maiden's  heart ; 

Time,  mystery  and  darkness  and  lone  death, 

Like  dim  dreams,  passed  o'er  her  tranced  brain,  and  earth 

And  agony  and  wrong  and  violence 

Were  but  the  shadows  childhood  sports  withal  ! 

She  woke  amid  the  gush  and  hymning  voice 
Of  fountains  and  the  living  gleam  of  fires, 
And  swell  of  tenderest  music  ;  and  beside 
The  purple  perfumed  couch,  whereon  she  lay, 
In  a  vast  chamber,  hung  with  flowers  and  gems, 
The  priest  of  Isis  stood  ; — his  glowing  eye 
No  longer  stern  and  chill,  his  lips  no  more 
Like  sculptured  cruelty,  but  bright  and  warm 
And  moist  with  mellowest  wine ;  and  o'er  his  face, 
Late  masked  in  mockeries,  the  burning  light 
Of  Passion  broke,  as  thus,  with  wanton  smiles, 
He  breathed  his  heart  upon  his  victim's  ear. 
"  Thy  path  to  pleasure,  like  the  world's,  my  love  ! 
Was  through  the  empire  of  pale  doubt  and  pain, 
Where  many  visions  of  detested  things 
Will  consummate  the  rapture  deigned  thee  here. 
Oh,  didst  thou  think,  my  queen  of  loveliness? 
That  by  Pompeii's  dastard  crowd  of  apes 
Thou  wert  borne  hither  that  the  sacred  lips 
Of  Isis,  parted  by  thy  purest  blood, 
Might  give  responses  to  fiend-loving  fools  ! 
The  goddess  hath  a  voice — when  I  ordain — 
And,  when  her  mysteries  have  filled  their  hearts 
With  myriad  terrors  to  which  death  is  bliss, 
They  shall  not  lack  an  answer  to  their  quest. 
But  this  is  Love's  elysium  ;  men  may  seek 
Another  by  Jove's  grace — but  this  for  me  ! 
Be  theirs  eternities  of  prayer  and  hymn ! 
But  Time  and  Wine  and  Venus  are  my  gods !" 

And  thus,  unweeting  who  bent  o'er  her  couch, 
The  maiden,  in  delirium,  made  reply. 
"  O  holy  Dian  !  hath  thine  Iris*  come 

*  The  rainbow,  in  every  mythology,  has  been  beautifully  personified.  Iris,  its  goddess, 
was  the  messenger  of  the  ancient  deities;  and  though  employed  by  jealous  Juno  to 
create  "  greeneyed  monsters,"  she  was  more  happily  occupied,  in  general,  in  separating 
virtuous  souls  from  feeble  frames  and  escorting  them  to  Elysium.  No  one  is  ignorant  of 
the  Scandinavian  bifrost,  and  the  romantic  tales  of  the  Eddas. 


THE   LAST    NIGHT  Of    FOMl'KII.  105 

To  lead  me  through  Elysium's  myrtle  groves  ? 
Thanks  for  the  briefest  pangs  of  death  !  my  soul 
Blends  with  the  radiance,  songs  and  incense  here 
In  rapture,  unforgetting  earth's  dark  ills, 
The  victim  bonds,  gloom,  terror,  madness  borne 
Amid  the  vaulted  corridors — deep  thanks, 
Chaste  Dian  !  for  the  dart  that  winged  me  here  !" 
Thus  she  lay  whispering  faintly,  while  the  veins, 
Again,  like  violets,  began  to  glow, 
And  Thought  from  the  elysian  portals  turned 
To  shed,  once  more,  its  light  along  her  brow. 
The  lips,  like  rifted  sunset  clouds,  burned  o'er 
With  beauty,  and  the  sloe-dark  eyes,  from  lids 
Of  loveliness  o'erarched  like  rainbows,  flashed 
Upon  the  luxuries  of  wantonness 
With  a  delirious  radiance;  and  she  pressed 
Her  fairy  hand  upon  her  troubled  brain 
As  dismal  memories  through  all  the  pomp 
Around  her  thronged.     "  Do  visions  o'er  me  rush 
Through  the  ivory  gate?  or  what  is  this?  methinks 
The  limbs  of  Vesta  pass  not  Charon's  ward — 
Yet  bear  I  them  !  and  I  behold  no  forms 
Like  the  supreme  divinities  who  dwell 
Beyond  the  azure  curtains  of  the  skies ! 

"Look  on  thy  suppliant  worshipper,  my  love  !" 
Said  £he  voluptuous  mocker  of  the  gods. 
"  Thy  Saturn,  my  Osiris,  aptly  feigned, 
With  Horus  and  the  laughing  Boygod,  wreathed 
With  lotus  and  charm'd  myrtle,  must  be  now 
The  only  Guardians  of  our  paradise — 
For  thou  art  the  voluptuous  Paphian  Queen, 
And  must  with  kisses  be  adored  !  thy  breath 
Is  odour — on  that  fair  full  bosom  sleep 
A  thousand  loves — those  lustrous  eyes  enchant — 
And  the  limbs  moulded  by  divinest  skill" — 

"  Reveal  thy  speech  !  what  import  bear  these  words  ? 
Dream  I,  or  art  thou  the  hierophant 
Of  Isis,  who  from  Misraim's  pyramids 
Brought'st  new  gods  into  Latium  ?  Nay,  I  skill  not, 
For  thou  vvear'st  not  the  countenance  that  chilled 

14 


106  CANTO    11. 

My  soul,  and  proud  Pompeii's  crowd  o'erawed, 
But  rather,  like  earth's  faun  or  satyr  fiend, 
Gloatest  o'er  some  revenge  for  sin  unknown  !" 

The  maiden's  lost  mind  came  in  all  its  strength 
And  purity,  and  in  the  dreadless  might 
Of  thoughts  unsoiled  by  evil,  she  resolved 
To  match  unfriended  virtue  with  the  power 
Of  Passion,  though  it  wore  Religion's  mask, 
And  gloried  in  No-Hammon's  lawless  power. 

"  Simple  as  Superstition's  prostrate  prayer  !" 
With  blandishments,  said  Isis'  haughty  priest. 
"  Know'st  thou  not,  loveliest  !  that  holy  men 
Must  never  shame  their  gods  by  deeds  unlike 
Their  sacred  exploits  ?  what  were  deathlessness 
Without  delight  ?  eternity,  without 
The  ecstacies  of  woman's  winning  smile  ? 
Thy  country's  hoarest  fathers,  most  for  skill 
In  counsel,  and  unequal  virtue  famed, 
In  canon  and  enactment  of  old  law, 
Did  consecrate  corruption  and  commit 
Captives  to  bondage  of  their  tyrant's  will, 
And  build  proud  temples  for  the  haunt  of  shame. 
We,  then,  are  mimes  of  the  Immortals,  Love  ! 
And  why  should  the  weak  waiter  on  the  rites 
Of  the  Omnipotents  refrain  from  joy  ? 
Folly  must  feel  our  masterdom,  when  words, 
Called  oracles,  are  bought,  but,  in  all  else, 
The  priest  was  framed  for  pleasure — and  thy  smile, 
Hebe  of  Beauty  !  from  thy  vassal  here 
Shall  win  a  better  augury  than  all 
Campania's  hecatombs  ! — Time  wastes,  my  bliss  ! 
Speak  thou  the  oracle  I  shall  repeat 
Through  Isis'  marble  lips  ! — the  answer's  thine  !" 

"  Thus,  then,"  the  Maiden  cried,  by  hope  inspired 
To  shun  impiety's  most  loathed  caress, 
"  Thus  let  the  mystic  oracle  declare ; 
1  Ye  shall  pass  o'er  the  Tyrrhene  sea  in  ships 
Laden  with  virgins,  gems  and  gods,  and  spoils 
Of  a  dismembered  empire,  and  a  cloud 


THE  LAST  NIGHT    OF    POMPEII.  107 

Of  light  shall  radiate  your  ocean  path  !" 
Breathes  not  the  soul  of  mystery  in  this?"* 

"  Ay,  love  !  and  after  his  desire  or  hope 
Each  may  interpret — veriest  oracles 
Must  have  a  myriad  meanings — and  the  voice 
Of  Memphian  Isis  shall,  at  once,  respond 
Unto  the  drivelling  dreamers  ;  then,  my  life  ! 
While  dotards  live  on  riddles  and  embrace 
Shadows  as  did  the  Thunderer  what  time 
The  oxeyed  empress  jealoused  of  his  deeds, 
We  at  Love's  feast  reposing  shall  regale 
And  drink  the  ecstacies  of  mingled  hearts  ! 
— The  sistrutn  sounds  !  the  sculptured  lips  shall  speak!" 

Exulting  thus,  the  Idol  minister 
Disclosed  a  stairway  through  the  sculptured  form 
Of  Serapis,  whose  giant  head  uprose 
Beneath  the  altar  of  the  fane,  and  thence 
Through  Isis'  sphynxlike  statue,  from  whose  mouth 
Responses  breathed  that  fitted  any  deed 
Or  aera  ;  fable  was  religion's  name. 
Up  through  the  hollow7  bosom  of  the  God, 
Saying,  "  The  mocker  Momusf  hath  his  jest 
And  more,  since  e'en  the  Immortal's  breast  bears  now 
A  mirror" — passed  the  priest — and  soundlessly 
The  daedal  portal,  bossed  with  vine-wreaths,  closed 
That  moment,  from  the  flowered  and  purple  couch 
The  maiden  sprung,  through  any  caverned  path, — 
All  peril  and  loathed  sights  and  awful  sounds, 

*The  whole  art  of  utteiing  oracles  consisted  in  choosing  terms  capable  of  any  con-, 
struction.  The  desires  of  the  consulter  determined  the  meaning;  and  neither  Delphi 
nor  Dodona  could  commit  its  credit  by  the  failure  of  a  prophesy  which,  it  might  allege, 
was  never  properly  understood.  No  one  can  have  forgotten  the  celebrated  response 
(which  illustrates  the  sophistries  and  follies  of  the  ancients)  "  Aio  te,  ^Eacide,  Romanes 
vincere  posse." 

The  maiden  now  consents  to  give  an  Isean  response,  prefiguring  the  ruin  impending 
from  which  all,  who  escape,  must  fly  by  sea,  that  the  absence  of  the  priest  may  afford  her 
an  opportunity  to  fly  from  the  lascivious  temple. 

j~Mornus,  the  Jester  of  the  gods,  when  Jupiter  presented  the  man  whom  he  had  created 
to  his  inspection,  and  asked  him  how,  characteristically,  he  could  find  fault  with  such 
workmanship,  replied  with  a  sneer  that  the  defect  was  both  obvious  and  incurable — that 
one  so  wise  as  the  king  of  gods  and  men  should  have  placed  a  mirror  over  his  heart  that 
all  might  discern  evil  purposes  in  their  first  conception.  The  priest,  by  filling  with  his 
person  the  aperture  of  the  image,  pleasantly  deems  himself  the  mirror  that  reveals  and 
directs  the  minds  of  men. 


108  CANTO     II. 

To  fly  from  pomp,  pollution  and  despair. 

Rushing  along  the  tesselated  floor, 

She  passed  the  beds  of  banquet,  whose  perfume 

From  sightless  vases  stole,  and  gained  the  verge 

Of  the  vast  gleaming  hall — but  now  she  met 

Black,  silent,  unknown  depths  that  seemed  to  scowl 

On  her  vain  flight !  to  every  side  she  flew 

But  to  encounter  granite  battlements, 

Coiled  serpents,  mouldering  sepulchres,  cold  cliffs, 

Gigantic  sphynxes,  towering  grim  o'er  lakes 

Of  sulphur,  or  the  dreadful  shapes  of  fiends. 

The  gorgeous  lights  grew  shadowy,  and  stained  clouds 

Of  vapour  floated  o'er  the  pillared  roof, 

Taking  all  forms  of  terror ;  and  low  sighs 

And  muttered  dirges  from  the  waters  stole 

Along  the  arches ;  and  through  all  the  vaults, 

Into  a  thousand  wailing  echoes  rent, 

A  shriek,  loud,  quick  and  full  of  agonies, 

Burst  from  the  deep  foundations  of  the  fane. 

With  steps  like  earliest  childhood's,  to  her  couch 

The  maiden  faltered  back,  and  there,  with  soul 

Too  overfraught  for  wished  unconsciousness, 

Gasping  her  breath,  she  listened  ! — Sullen  sounds 

Wandered  along  the  temple  aisles  above  ; 

Then  came  the  clang  of  cymbals  and  strange  words 

Uttered  amid  the  farofT  music's  swell: 

And  the  prostrated  multitudes,  like  woods 

Hung  with  the  leaves  of  autumn,  stirred  ;  then  fell 

A  silence  when  the  heart  was  heard — a  pause — 

When  ardent  hope  became  an  agony; 

And  parted  lips  and  panting  pulses — eyes 

Wild  with  their  watchings,  brows  with  beaded  dews 

Of  expectation  chilled  and  fevered — all 

The  shaken  and  half-lifted  frame — declared 

The  moment  of  the  oracle  had  come  ! 

A  sceptre  to  the  hand  of  Isis  leapt 

And  waved  ;  and  then  the  deep  voice  of  the  priest 

Uttered  the  maiden's  answer,  and  the  fall 

Of  many  quickened  steps  like  whispers  pass'd 

Along  the  columned  aisles  and  vestibule. 

None  deemed,  the  maiden  in  the  earthquake's  groan 


THE  LAST   NK511T  OF   POMPF.1I.  109 

And  the  volcano's  thunder  voice,  had  heard 
The  hastening  doom,  and  clothed  it  in  dark  words 
The  blinded  victims  never  could  discern; 
But    to  the  bosom  of  their  guilt  again 
They  passed,  dreaming  of  victories  and  spoils ! 
"  Gone  !"  said  the  priest,  descending — "  Serapis  ! 
Pardon  and  thanks  I  crave  and  give  thee,  god  ! 
— Gone  to  their  phantom  banquet  with  glad  hearts — 
Such  is  the  bliss  of  superstition's  creed  ! 
And  they  will  glory  o'er  their  fellows  now, 
Deeming  themselves  the  temples  of  the  gods  ! 
Brimmed  with  revealings  of  divinity : 
But  Folly  wafts  us  food,  and  we  should  laud 
The  victim  of  night  visionries  who  parts 
With  virgin  gold  for  fabled  miracles! 
But  that  thy  loveliness  might  peril  prayers 
And  change  the  rites  to  riots  ill  esteemed, 
Thou  shouldst  have  been  a  pythoness,  my  love  ! 
What  shadow  veils  thy  vestal  brow  ?  thou  art 
My  bride,  and  pleasure  waits  upon  thee  here — 
Let  the  pure  wine  awake  thy  thoughts  to  mirth !" 

•*  Mirth  at  the  altar  which  thou  mockst  with  jeers ! 

Mirth  in  thy  holy  ministries,  proud  priest ! 

It  fits  thee  not — and  less  thine  evil  speech 

To  Lffilius'  child,  who,  while  her  father  waits 

On  royal  Titus  in  imperial  Rome, 

Betrayed,  it  seems,  by  thy  fit  parasites, 

Was  hither  borne  by  doomed  Pompeii's  throng, 

A  victim,  not  to  Isis,  but  to  thee  ! 

Beware,  thou  atheist  pontiff!  the  shocked  world 

Hath  had  and  shall,  through  uncreated  time, 

Have  mitred  scorners,  who  blaspheme  the  heavens, 

Mocking  the  faith  with  which  they  manacle 

The  hearts  that  would  deny  yet  dare  not — like 

Thee,  mocker  of  the  idol  thou  dost  serve ! 

Yet  doubt  not — years  are  but  the  viewless  path 

Of  the  avenging  Deity  !  the  earth, 

Elysium,  Orcus,  the  s\veet  pleiades, 

The  weeping  stars,  the  depths  of  ocean  swept 

By  typhon  tossing  billows  to  the  heavens — 

All  live  but  in  the  will  of  One  Supreme, 


•     ••    . 

110  CANTO    II. 

Whose  breath  inspires  the  universe — whose  soul 

Is  Immortality  !  and  'neath  His  throne 

I  kneel  and  wrap  around  my  mortal  fears 

The  robe  of  His  immortal  purity, 

Bidding  thee,  Priest !  e'en  in  thy  purple  home, 

Tremble  amid  thy  thoughts  of  sacrilege  !" 

"Jo  Athena  !  Pallas  hath  no  gift 
To  rival  thine,  my  loveliest !  thy  words, 
Like  pungent  herbs  before  the  banquet,  give 
A  charm,  a  flavour,  an  Apician  zest 
To  the  deferred  delight,  that  dawns  in  tear?. 
Coy  maidenhood  !  the  sage  in  all  his  lore 
Must  learn  the  science  of  awaking  bliss 
From  thee,  supremely  skilled  in  gibe  and  taunt, 
Which  are  harsh  preludes  to  long  lingering  bliss. 
But  the  wine  blushes,  Love  !  to  meet  thy  lip — 
Lo  !  how  it  kisses  the  crowned  cup  and  smiles  ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  leave  me — (though  thy  free  discourse 
Argues  but  ill) — for  yon  dim  vaults,  greened  o'er 
By  the  dead  dampness,  where  cold  serpents  trail 
And  cockatrices  brood,  and  livid  asps 
Madden  with  unspent  poison!  thou  hast  seen 
A  portion  of  the  terrors — 't  is  thy  choice 
To  dwell  with  love  and  luxury  and  joy, 
Or  have  a  farther  knowledge — come,  love!  come! 
The  unfurrowed  features  of  a  priest  may  charm 
Thy  dainty  spirit  well  as  dead  men's  smiles 
Sardonic,  and  the  gleam  of  breathless  flesh  ! 
Are  crimson  pillows  of  the  cygnet  down 
Less  fitting  thy  desire  than  jagged  rocks 
Beetling  o'er  naptha  fires  and  festering  floods? 
Or  yon  tapestried  couch,  thou  \vilt  desert, 
Less  to  thy  wish  than  wanderings  through  the  gloom 
Of  haunted  charnel  labyrinths  beyond? 
-Come,  thou  art  wiser  !  Passion  is  my  god 
First  worshipped — next,  Revenge  ! — my  arms  are  chilled 
By  cold  embraces  of  the  goddess — come  .!" 

•"  Demon  !  thy  power  is  o'er  me — none  behold — 

Rome's  banded  legions  could  not  rescue  me — 

Yet  I  scorn,  loathe,  dare,  trample  thee,  proud  priest ! 


THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII.  Ill 

What  art  thou  but  corrupted  clay  beneath 

The  furnace  ?  but  the  loathsome  bird  that  feasts 

On  desolation's  relics  ? — Oh,  there  comes 

A  glad  sound  on  mine  ear — a  triumph  sound — 

The  deep  earth-hymn  of  ruin  !  hark  !  it  swirls 

Along  the  abysses  of  the  hills  and  seas, 

Lifting  the  mountains  with  its  breath — it  comes  ! 

Ye  manes  of  mine  ancestors  !  it  comes  !" 

"  What,  scorner !  dost  thou  think  to  cheat  my  skill 
With  thy  Trophonian  dreams,  when  I  have  clasped 
Delusions  to  my  bosom  since  my  birth  ? 
And  juggled  men  by  all  circean  arts  ? 
I  woo  no  longer  !  thou  art  in  my  grasp — 
And  by  the  Immortals  I  disown  !  thou  shalt"- 

"  It  comes  !  the  temple  reels  and  crashes — Jove  ! 
I  thank  thee  !  Vesta  !  let  me  sleep  with  thee  !" 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  earthquake  rocked 
The  statues  and  the  pillars,  and  her  brain 
Whirled  with  the  earth's  convulsions,  as  the  maid 
Fell  by  a  trembling  image  and  upraised 
A  prayer  of  gratitude;  while  through  the  vaults, 
In  fear  and  ghastly  horror,  fled  the  priest, 
Breathing  quick  curses  'mid  his  warning  cries 
For  succour:  and  the  obscene  birds  their  wings 
Flapped  o'er  his  pallid  face ;  and  reptiles  twined 
In  folds  of  knotted  venom  round  his  feet. 
Yet  on  he  rushed — the  blackened  walls  around 
Crashing — the  spectral  lights  hurled  hissing  down 
The  cold  green  waters ;  and  thick  darkness  came 
To  bury  ruin  !     Through  the  arches  rent 
And  falling  on  he  hurried,  and  a  glance 
Of  sunlight  down  the  granite  stairway  came, 
Like  a  winged  spirit,  to  direct  him  on. 
The  secret  door  of  the  adytum  swung 
Wide,  and  he  hailed  the  flamens  that  above 
Hastened  his  flight — when  o'er  the  marble  stair 
The  Nubian  pillars  of  the  chancel  roof, 
Thrown  by  the  earthquake  o'er  the  altar,  crashed 
Through  shrines  of  gems  and  gold,  mosaic  floor 
And  beams  of  choicest  cedar,  and  around 


112  CANTO    II. 

The  priest  of  Isis  piled  a  sepulchre 

Amid  the  trophies  of  his  temple,  where 

His  living  heart,  crushed  by  despairing  thoughts. 

Found  burial  till  the  hour  of  havoc  came! 

Buttress  and  arch,  pillar  and  image  fell, 
And  the  green  waters  of  the  gloom  were  filled 
With  hoarded  treasures — vainly  coffered  up. 
Now  rose  the  maiden  on  the  quaking  earth, 
And,  like  the  thoughts  of  parted  love  in  youth, 
Rushed  from  the  mitred  violator's  home, 
Through  the  felt  darkness  of  the  labyrinth. 
On  sculptured  capitals  and  heads  of  gods 
She  passed  the  dismal  gulfs,  and  trident  tongues 
Hissed  after  her  amid  the  turbid  waves. 
Along  a  gorgeous  banquet  hall,  o'erstrewn 
With  porphyry  tables,  alabaster  lamps, 
Half  quenched,  and  shattered  wine  cups  of  gemrn'd  gold, 
With  awe  and  wonder  fraught,  the  victim  fled. 
And  now  she  grasped  a  flickering  light  and  on 
Hurried,   casting  on  dolesome  objects  round, 
And  nameless  things  of  horror,  glances  wild 
With  terrour  and  deep  loathing ;  the  death-dews 
Upon  the  walls,  green  with  the  deadly  moss, 
Trailed  in  thick  streams,  and  o'er  her  sinking  heart 
Breathed  the  cold  midnight  of  the  sepulchre  ; 
And  from  the  shapeless  shadows  growing  up, 
The  startled  spirit  wrought  the  forms  of  fiends, 
Or,  worse,  pursuers  charged  to  hale  her  back. 

The  virgin  flies  along  a  corridor 
Ampler,  and  living  with  the  daylight  air; 
And  far,  upon  its  boundary,  she  discerns 
An  open  portal,  and  a  rosebeam  gush 
Of  radiance  streams  upon  the  threshold  stone. 
Like  Delphi's  Pythia  in  her  maniac  mood, 
She  leaves  the  vaults  of  Isis,  hurls  aside 
The  tissued  curtains  o'er  the  portal  hung, 
And  springs,  bewildered  yet  exulting,  through 
Voluptuous  chambers,  frescoed  o'er  with  scenes 
Of  earthly  Passion  in  its  last  excess, 
Where  the  mind  melts  in  odour,  and  the  heart 


CANTO    II.  1  13 

Pants  in  the  fever  of  the  earthborn  Love.* 

"Oh,  watching  Dian!  whither  am  I  led? 

These  mellowed  lamps  that  burn  in  fragrant  nard, 

Those  violet  couches — wanton  picturess — hrines 

Of  chrysolite  with  myrtle  wreaths  o'erhung, 

And  jewelled  girdles  loosened — what  is  this 

But  Paphian  Venus'  temple !  oh,  the  vaults 

Of  Isis  are  elysium  to  her  bowers  !" 

She  turned  to  hasten,  when  a  strangled  shriek 

From  the  recess  before  her  came,  and  sounds 

Of  fear  and  strife,  and  hate  and  agony 

Rose  indistinct  yet  with  intensest  strength. 

The  maiden's  only  path  of  flight  lay  there. 

She  drew  aside  the  curtain,  and  with  hair 

Tangled  and  drenched  with  vault  dews,  haggard  face 

And  eyes  dilated,  like  a  sybil  stood, 

A  moment,  in  the  very  bower  of  lust, 

Glaring  in  terror  on  two  forms  that  strove, 

One  with  the  strength  of  Virtue  and  deep  wrong, 

The  other  with  base  Passion's  baffled  wrath. 

"  No,  never  shall  thy  pride  the  power  and  love 

Of  Diomede  despise !  Here,  in  the  home 

Of  Isis'  own  luxurious  priests,  thou  dwell'st 

Their  slave,  till  thou  art  mine !"     "No,  tyrant,  no!" 

The  lovely  victim  shrieked,  when  from  the  vaults, 

In  agony  of  fear,  with  horror  wild, 

The  Maiden  rushed,  and,  like  a  spirit  armed 

With  Heaven's  own  vengeance,  stood;  then  quick  as  light 

While  still  the  violator  gazed  upon 

The  sudden  vision,  hurling  him  apart, 

The  feebler  being  rushed  along  the  aisles, 

Through  many  a  crypt  and  sacrosanct  and  cell 

Of  mystery  and  wantonness  and  guilt, 

With  face  fearwrought  and  raiment  soiled  and  torn. 

The  maiden  traced  the  fugitive,  and  ere 

The  blood,  now  at  the  heart,  might  reach  the  brow, 

They  stood  together  'neath  the  open  skies. 

"  The  Saviour  for  thy  service  bless  thee  maid !" 

The  Pompeiian  temple  of  Isis  was  connected  by  subterranean  passages  with  the 
luxurious  abodes  of  the  Egyptian  priests  or  pastophoii,  who  were  the  supporters  of  pro 
consular  tyranny.  HereAnteroa  reigned  supreme,  and  wantonness  was  trulv  Pan,  or 
everything. 

15 


114  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

'T  was  Mariamne — from  the  loathed  embrace 

Of  Diomede  escaped — that  quickly  spake. 

"  I  cannot  ask  nor  answer  now — but  fly 

With  me,  for  peril's  look  proclaims  thee  pure  ! 

Quick,  maiden  !  Diomede  will  never  spare — 

Yet  Mariamne  once  again  is  free  ! 

It  should  be  noontide  ;  but  a  livid  gloom 

Palls  all  things,  and  a  ghastliness,  nor  light 

Nor  darkness,  wraps  our  flight  and  bodes  an  eve 

The  workers  of  all  evil,  in  their  pride, 

Dread  not,  nor  dream  of!  Pansa !  heaven  in  love 

Keep  thy  unfaltering  thoughts  beneath  the  wings 

Of  cherubim,  and  clothe  thy  heart  with  strength 

To  foil  the  fiend  that  dares  or  tempts  to  sin ! 

Where'er  thou  art !  we  shall  not  fail  to  meet, 

For  all  shall  be  abroad,  and  earth  and  air 

And  fire  and  flood  shall  mingle  ere  sun  sinks. 

Away !  sweet  maiden  ! — now  the  Cyprian's  fane — 

The  equestrian  Forum — the  Praetorians'  tower — 

Are  passed;  and  'mid  the  crowded  huts,  that  lie 

Beneath  the  amphitheatre,  we  rest 

Till  the  deep  justice  of  JEHOVAH  comes  !" 

"  Art  thou  a  Nazarene  ?"  the  Maiden  said. 
"  A  convert  of  the  CRUCIFIED,  whose  fame 
Hath  filled  and  overawed  the  Roman  World  1" 

"  I  was  a  Hebrew  and  a  princess — now 
lama  Christian  and  a  captive  !  Come  ! 
This  garb  and  guise  of  thine  declares,  methinksr 
Some  mysteries  of  thy  country's  deities — 
This  day,  thou  shalt  not  fail  to  learn  of  mine  !" 
She  breathed  a  strange  word  and  a  shrivelled  hand 
Unbarred  a  low  dark  postern,  and  a  face, 
Darkened  and  harrowed  by  the  toils  and  thoughts 
And  changes  of  exceeding  years,  looked  forth. 
The  melancholy  shadow  of  a  smile 
And  the  sad  echo  of  a  broken  voice 
Gave  welcome  to  the  wanderers  ;  and  amid 
The  solemn  stillness  of  their  refuge  fell, 
From  the  pale  lips  of  persecuted  faith, 
Full  many  a  history  of  the  martyrdoms. 


CANTO    II.  115 

The  games  of  life  go  on  !  Madness  and  mirth, 
Triumph  and  tears,  the  holydays  of  youth, 
The  winter  of  hoar,  stricken  age,  the  pride 
Of  mind  and  meekness  of  a  heart  sore  tried, 
Rapture  and  anguish,  poverty  and  pomp, 
And  glory  and  the  tomb — like  rivals,  crowd 
Along  the  isthmus  of  our  being,  doomed 
To  vanish  momently  in  billowy  gloom  ! 
The  dewlight  of  the  morn  in  storm  departs; 
The  moonbeams  strewing  rifted  clouds,  like  smiles 
Breathed  from  the  bosom  of  Divinity, 
Sink,  ere  the  daydawn,  in  the  tempest's  rack ; 
Yet  on  o'er  buried  centuries — the  dead  dust 
Of  ages — once  like  the  starr'd  heavens  inspired 
By  myriad  passions,  dreaming  miracles, 
And  winged  conceptions  infinite  as  air — 
TIME,  the  triumphant,  in  his  trophied  car, 
Moves  sternly,  trampling  ardent  hearts  to  earth. 
Oh,  diademed  Hypocrisies !  budding  Bliss, 
The  mildew  sears — sky-soaring  Hope,  that  dies 
In  its  birth  moment — Love,  which  on  its  shrine 
Of  incense  perishes — and  Fame,  that  drinks 
The  bane  of  human  breath  and  falls  alone! 
The  same  arena,  judges,  wrestlers,  crown — 
The  same  brief  transport  and  unsolaced  doom — 
First,  madness,  and  then  vanity — the  world 
Must  be,  till  time  is  quenched,  what  it  hath  been, 
The  bounded  circle  of  chained  thought,  trod  down 
By  nations  hastening  into  nothingness, 
Echoing  the  groans  of  Pain's  ten  thousand  years, 
And  drenched  by  tears  that  find  no  comforter  I 

With  livid  clouds  of  ashes,  lava  hail, 
And  Volcan  cinders  all  the  air  was  filled  ; 
And  through  the  bosom  of  Vesuvius  passed 
Groans  as  of  earth-gods  in  their  endless  death, 
And  giant  writhings,  crushing  the  earth's  heart; 
As  through  the  tossing  vapours,  mingling  flame 
And  gloom,  toward  the  Evening  Isles  so  loved 
By  ancient  sage,  philosopher  and  bard, 
From  the  dark  zenith  rolled  the  gory  sun. 


, 

• 
116  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Like  the  ailanthus  tree  of  old  Cathay, 

Whose  boughs,  old  legends  say,  bloom  in  the  stars, 

The  deep  smoke  of  overhanging  ruin  whirled 

From  the  volcano's  pinnacle,  and  flung 

Its  branches  over  nations,  scattering  death. 

The  Apennines,  looking  the  wild  wrath  and  awe 

That  clothed  wood,  waste  and  precipice,  upraised 

Their  brows  of  terror  and  magnificence, 

On  their  eternal  thrones  watching  the  throes 

Of  the  convulsed  abysses  ;  from  the  crags 

The  seared  and  shivering  forests  bent  and  moaned, 

As  o'er  them  flew  the  torrid  blast  of  fate ; 

And,  as  the  molten  rocks  and  mines  began 

To  pour  their  broad  deep  masses  from  the  height, 

Vast  trunks  of  sycamore  and  cypress  stood 

Charred,  stark  and  trembling,  and  the  castled  cliffs 

Burst  like  a  myriad  thunders,  while  the  flood 

Of  desolation,  o'er  their  crashing  wrecks, 

Tow'rd  Herculaneum,*  gleaming  horror,  rolled. 

Yet  men  repented  not  of  foregone  crime, 

Denied  them  not  their  wonted  festivals, 

Their  pomp  of  garniture  and  banquet  mirth. 

Tornado,  pestilence,  earthquake  and  war 

Awe  not  the  criminal  inured  to  guilt; 

So  the  barbed  poison  arrow  flies  his  heart, 

His  pageants  and  night  orgies  brighter  glow — 

Though  death  sighs  float  along  the  winecups,  brimmed 

With  nectar,  mocking  all  calamities. 

From  the  Basilicasf  the  Prastor  passed, 
(Thither  when  foiled  in  lust,  to  wreak  his  wrath 
On  guiltlessness  and  guilt  alike,  he  went,) 
Leaving  his  tyrant  judgments,  in  a  voice 
Of  jeering  merriment  pronounced,  to  fall 
On  less  offending  breakers  of  the  law. 
Prostrate  upon  his  path,  a  mother  cried, 

*  As  Herculaneum  was  buried  beneath  vast  masses  of  solid  lava,  but  Pompeii  beneath 
scoriae,  ashes  and  cinders,  I  have,  with  probable  reason,  supposed  that  the  formerwas  de 
stroyed  before  ruin  fell  upon  the  latter. 

^Spacious  and  beautiful  edifices  appropriated  to  the  Centumviri,  the  judges  of  the 
Roman  Empire,  over  whom,  by  right  of  station,  the  Praetor  always  presided. 


CANTO  II.  117 

"  Spare,  Oh  Propraetor  !  spare  my  guiltless  child  ! 
He  walked  not  with  conspirators — spake  not 
To  leaders  of  sedition — spare  him,  judge  ! 
He  hath  no  father — and  is  all  to  me !" 

Diomede  paused  not  in  his  stern  reply  : 
"  The  hordes  of  Haemus  may  learn  wisdom,  then, 
And  virtue  and  refinement  from  his  speech — 
For  he  is  banished — I  reverse  no  doom  I" 
The  lictors'  fasces  o'er  the  supplicant 
In  haughty  scorn  went  on. — Another  voice 
Assailed  the  Praetor :  "  To  a  cruel  lord 
The  quaestor  sold  my  husband  for  the  tax 
Ye  laid  upon  our  hut — and  now  he  groans 
In  bondage,  while  his  famished  children  die  \" 

"  Why  am  I  thus  benetted  on  my  way? 
I  serve  the  senate  and  inflict  their  laws. 
What  is  't  to  me  who  thralls  or  suffers  thrall  ? 
Let  him  atone  !  why  should  he  scorn  to  toil  ?" 

"  Justice,  Lord  Governor  !"  a  third  implored. 
"  Thy  favourite  Vibius  hath  cast  deep  shame 
Upon  my  household,  and  my  daughter's  wrongs 
Exact  redress;  not  more  than  this  from  Rome 
Banished  the  Tarquins  and  decemviri !" 

"  Ha  !  dost  thou  threat,  Plebeian  ?  Vibius  hears 
Thy  fierce  arraignments  with  a  smile — no  doubt, 
Some  twilight  kisses  in  the  summer  glade — 
Pressed  palms — clasped  bosoms — dewy  lips — no  more  ! 
And  thou  wouldst  mock  the  majesty  of  law, 
And  wed  thy  base  condition  with  the  blood 
Of  my  Patrician  friend  !  away  with  thee  ! 
Methinks,  Vesuvian  fume  hath  filled  the  brains 
Of  all  the  city — and  the  boiling  earth 
Bubbled  its  yeast  into  your  grovelling  hearts. 
On,  Lictors  !  on — we  tarry  from  the  feast !" 

In  robes  of  white,  festooned  by  mingled  flowers, 
And  ivy  wreaths  or  crowns  of  amethyst, 
The  Przetor's  guests,  on  crimson  couches,  lay 


118  THE    LAST    NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

Around  the  ivory  tables,  on  which  stood, 

'Mid  choicest  viands  and  the  costliest  wines, 

A  silver  shrine  and  images  of  gods. 

Pictures — the  prodigies  of  perfect  skill — 

Hung  round  the  hall  of  banquet,  and  to  men, 

The  imitators  of  divinities, 

Made  venial  every  vice.     In  plenitude 

Of  power  and  treachery,  their  holiest  Jove, 

Masked  to  dishonour  and  betray,  achieved 

Shame's  triumph,  and  the  wanton  canvas  lived 

With  Mycon's  impure  thought  ;*  there  Bacchus  stood, 

Gloating  o'er  lozelries  and  revel  routs, 

As  Zeuxis  drew  the  king  of  catamites; 

Venus,  the  earthborn,  'mid  voluptuous  nymphs, 

Reclined  on  myrtle  beds  with  swimming  eyes, 

And  sunbeam  lips  dewmoist,  and  wanton  swell 

Of  bosom  far  too  beautiful,  and  limbs 

Half  hid  in  amorous  flowers  !  and  ancient  fame 

For  matchless  charm  of  genius  here  had  shrined 

Parrhasius'  name !  while  Passion's  maddening  heart 

Burned  o'er  the  walls,  and  rival  statues  stood 

Beneath  ;  and  there  the  last  wild  feast  was  held 

Pompeii's  toil  and  tears  e'er  gave  to  Guilt. 

The  knelling  slaves  in  goblets  wrought  from  gems 
Served  acrid  wine — on  gold  plate,  bitter  herbs 
To  zest  the  appetite ;  and,  glancing  up 
His  haughty  eyes,  burning  with  hate  and  scorn, 
Chafed  Diomede  upon  his  vassals  flung 
The  venom  of  his  darkly  brooding  mind. 
"  Be  thy  locks  shorn  as  fits  thine  office,  slave ! 
Or  I  may  brand  the  theta  on  thy  browf 
Less  undefined,  and  make  the  dust  thy  food  ! 
Companian  servitude,  methinks,  outgrows 
All  wantonness.     Ho,  Midas  !  thou  art  skilled, 

*All  the  ancient  sculptors  and  painters,  inimitable  as  they  were  in  the  execution  of 
their  conceptions,  faithfully  followed,  perhaps  led  the  blush-disowning  taste  of  the  times; 
and  every  banquet-hall  and  chamber  exhibited  indubitable  testimonials  of  their  uses. — 
Mycon,  Xeuxis  and  Parrhasius,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  were  gifted  and  celebrated 
artists. 

[The  Greek  letter  6  (theta)  was  burned  upon  the  foreheads  of  slaves  as  an  indelible 
sign  of  proprietorship  ;  hence  they  were  called  literati — a  term  strictly  applicable  to  some 
less  ancient  and  better  conditioned  persons  than  the  captive  barbarians  of  buried  times. 


CANTO  II.  119 

I  hear,  in  tintinnaculating  verse, 

And  lispest  snatches  of  philosophy  ! 

Be  master  of  thy  safety!  I  may  lose 

A  pampered  slave  erelong — or,  at  the  best, 

The  tintinnaculus  may  shame  thy  clink  !* — 

— Be  merry,  friends  ! — what  tidings  from  the  throne  ? 

Ye  have  beheld  the  Temple  of  the  Peace 

Filled  with  the  spoils  of  rebel  Jews,  where  all 

Treasure  their  gold  and  gems — a  trophied  fame  ! 

The  gorgeous  fabric  is  a  coffer  !  Rome 

Wears  all  earth's  glories  in  her  mighty  Crown. 

What  think  ye,  then  ?  a  sackcloth  skeleton 

Wanders  and  mutters  on  the  Palatine 

That  what  he  calls  Jehovah's  wrath  will  burst, 

And  in  thick  blackness  bury  all  this  pomp, — 

Making  Earth's  Mistress  a  stark  mendicant !" 

Loud  laughed  the  parasites,  and  wanton  gibes 

Were  cast  on  Jew  and  Gentile ;  then  the  feast 

*    * 

Of  rarest  luxuries  before  them  glowed, 

And,  (bright  libations  poured  to  Vesta  first) 

The  beaded  wine  was  quaffed  from  goblets  brimm'd. 

"  Oh,  I  forget !"  said  Diomede,  the  light 

Of  the  delirious  revel  in  his  eyes, 

As  in  the  opal  radiance  of  the  cup 

They  glowed,  and  glanced,  with  an  exulting  pride, 

'Mid  costliest  viands  from  the  mead  and  main — 

"  The  fairest  sport  awaits  us  ere  the  games  ! 

In  the  Campanian  legion,  at  the  siege 

Of  that  black  Golgotha  the  traitors  called 

Jerusalem,  a  soldier  served  with  skill 

Whom  Titus  made  Decurion :  him  the  plague 

Of  the  new  Heresey,  and  Love,  at  once, 

Infected  ;  and,  abandoning  the  host, 

He  sought  elysium  in  the  caverns  here, 

Till  Thraso  found  his  philosophic  haunt, 

Where  with  his  Hebrew  Paphian  he  was  wont 

In  hermit  guise  to  play  the  liberal. 

*The  Prsetor  may,  perhaps,  be  allowed  a  pun.  Tintinnaculus  may  mean  a  public 
whipper — an  inflictor  of  the  bastinado — and  jingling  rhymer ;  lashes  and  verses  both  may 
be  melodious. 


120  THE    LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

He  dies  today  ;  but  for  the  present  mirth 

His  tongue  may  vibrate — Ho  !— The  Nazarene  !" 

The  slaves  led  Pansa  from  the  portico 
Fettered  yet  fearless,  for  the  time  of  dread 
Had  passed  from  him,  and  in  his  hopeless  cell 
The  Paraclete  illumed  his  darkened  soul, 
And  panoplied  his  heart  to  dare  his  doom. 
Thus,  as  he  entered,  loud  the  Praetor  spake: 
"  Hail,  Gladiator  !  did  thy  felon  god, 
Thy  scourged  and  crucified  divinity, 
Instruct  thee  in  the  sabre's  use  against 
The  shaggy  monarch  of  Numidian  hills? 
Art  thou  argute  and  apt  to  lunge  and  fence 
Adroit  and  firm  of  nerve  to  meet  or  shun 
The  salutations  of  the  Desert  King] 
Lucania  and  Calabria  have  poured  out 
Their  thousands  to  behold  thy  feats  to  day  ; 
And,  gay  as  bridal  banqueters,  they  throng 
The  arcades  and  the  vomitories  now 
To  weep  the  Mauretanian's  martyrdom — 
For  thou,  no  doubt,  wilt  triumph  and  receive 
The  twice  ten  thousand  acclamations  sent 
To  honour  thy  proud  valour,  as  is  meet. 
Oh,  thou  shalt  be  anointed  like  thy  Christ, 
And  not  with  vulgar  nard  by  courtesans, 
But  ceroma  and  myron  !  owest  thou  not 
Thanks  to  the  Roman  Mercy  for  this  care?" 

"  A  Roman's  Mercy  !  every  spot  of  earth, 
Your  banners  have  shed  plagues  on,  can  attest 
With  shrieks  what  mercy  Rome  has  given  earth," 
Said  Pansa,  dauntless  in  the  cause  of  Truth. 
"  Yet  ye  shall  never  feel  the  love  ye  boast 
Until  the  slaves  ye  trample,  torture,  slay, 
After  the  unanswered  vengeance  of  your  will, 
Shall  learn  that  they  are  human  and  awake 
To  imitate  the  mercy  of  their  lords  f 
Perchance — 'twas  in  my  native  land — I  know 
Thee  and  thy  fathers,  Praetor !  though  thou  sitst 
In  pride  of  judgment  now— thine  ancestors 


CANTO    II.  121 

Were  suttlers  of  the  Carthagenian  camp, 

When  mine  called  freedom  to  the  Sacred  Mount; — 

Thou  rnayst  have  heard  the  tale  of  Sicily, 

Or  read  that  Spartacus  withstood  the  hosts — " 

"  Ay,  traitor  and  apostate  !  ere  an  hour 
To  gnash  thy  perjured  tongue !"  said  Diomede, 
Dreading  his  victim's  speech,  for  he  had  lived 
In  terror  of  the  knowledge  of  his  birth, 
Yet  howling  curses.     "  Ay,  a  million  died 
In  fit  atonement  of  their  rebel  crime." 

"  Crime  ?  that  the  name  of  Liberty  should  be 
The  burning  heart's  perpetuated  curse  ! 
Oh,  what  can  thrive  in  thraldom  but  revenge  ! 
The  thong,  the  goad,  the  brand  of  shame — the  sense 
Of  ignominy,  dreading  to  uplift 

Its  startled  eye—what  should  they  bring  ?  and  what 
Must  be  the  fruits  of  such  a  poison  tree  ? 
Condition  is  but  chance,  and  none  are  born 
With  manacles  upon  their  limbs  !  most  crimes 
Corrupted  power  makes  such,  and  men  submit 
Because  Despair  hath  forged  the  tyrant's  chain. 
The  unjust  laws  of  violent  men  are  crimes, 
Treasons  to  kingdoms,  blasphemies  to  heaven; 
And  they,  who  willingly  obey  such  laws, 
Should  share  the  punishment  of  them  that  made 
GOD'S  creatures  slaves  to  Devils.     This  is  crime  !" 

"  Now  by  the  sceptred  Three  who  rule  the  shades  ! 
Can  his  own  heretics  arraign  his  doom  ? 
Such  uttered  doctrines  would  convulse  the  wrorld, 
And  even  here  shall  not  be  spoken — cease  ! 
Thou  cursed  Christian  !  wouldst  thou  rouse  my  slaves  t" 

"  Thy  slaves  !  thou  slaveborn  tyrant !"  Pansa  cried. 
"  No  realm  of  earth  is  slavery's  ;  I  would  bid 
The  dust  be  spirit,  and  the  brute  be  man  ! 
I  came  not  hither  by  my  will — I  am 
Thy  victim,  not  thy  vassal — and  if  Truth 
Offends,  command  me  hence,  or  argue  here ! 
But  in  prsetorium,  dungeon  Mamertine, 

10 


122  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEH. 

Chains,  exile  or  the  arena — thought  and  speech 

Are  mine ;  and  from  my  country  and  my  faith 

I  have  not  failed  to  learn  the  rights  of  man  ! 

From  the  far  hour  when  vestal  Ilia  sinned 

And  suffered,  and  Rome's  walls  were  laid  in  blood, 

Have  human  hearts  had  peace,  whether  among 

Helvetian  icehills  or  the  Lybian  wastes  ? 

Conquest  was  born  of  carnage  and  the  spoil 

Of  kingdoms  to  a  hydra  faction  given, 

While  sybilline  revealments—  Numa's  thoughts— 

With  old  religion  sanctified  the  deeds 

Ofdesolators  of  the  shuddering  earth. 

Scarce  e'en  for  hours  through  all  Rome's  centuries 

Hath  the  caduceus  met  the  eye  of  day,* 

Or  the  ancilia  idle  in  the  fane 

Of  Rome's  Wargod,  whose  herald  is  despair, 

Hung :  but  far  gleaming  in  the  torrid  sun, 

*Mid  standards  floating  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 

On  all  the  earth  have  cast  the  plagues  of  hell. 

Boundless,  perpetual  and  almighty  Fear 

Hath  ever  been  your  God  of  gods — rocks,  caves, 

Woods,  grottoes,  lakes  and  mountains  are  the  realms 

Of  Dis  or  Jupiter's  elysian  fields. 

And  wisely  named  the  sophist  and  the  bard 

The  floods  of  fabled  Erebus — for  Rome 

Baptized  her  sons  in  Phlegethons  of  blood, 

Cheering  war  vigils  with  Cocyti  songs. 

Yon,  bythe  Tyrrhene  waters,  on  whose  shores 

The  banished  Scipio  died  in  solitude : 

The  tyrant  raised  his  hundred  banquet  halls,f 

Tritoli's  stews  and  Baiaj's  palaces ; 

The  cannibal  patrician  daily  slew 

Captives  to  feed  the  lampreys  of  his  lake , 

And  Rome's  all-daring  Orator,  proscribed 

By  princely  friendship  in  his  peril,  'neath 

*  The  wand  of  Mercury  was  the  sign  of  peace;  the  caduceus  was,  therefore,  seldom 
out  of  the  hand  of  the  lord  of  larceny. 

f  The  Cento  Camarelle  of  Nero  and  Piscina  Mirabile  (wonderful  fishpond)  of  Lu- 
cullus,  even  in  ruins,  are  objects  of  amazement  to  less  abominable  despots  of  modern 
times.  Baise  was  the  most  voluptuous  of  all  the  voluptuous  resorts  of  the  Romans,  and  the 
baths  of  Tritoli  were  necessary  to  restore  the  patricians  after  Falernian  excesses.  Here 
Lucullus  fed  his  fish  on  human  flesh — here  Cicero  perished — by  the  permission  of  his 
fritnd  Octavius. 


CANTO    II.  123 

Antony's  vengeance  fell,  a  martyr  ; — there, 

The  astute  creators  of  your  creed  have  feigned 

Your  mortal  hell  and  heaven — in  Cumse's  caves, 

And  Puteoli's  naptha  mines — amid 

The  beautiful  Pausylipo,  whose  waves 

And  woods  in  sweet  airs  and  fair  suns  rejoice. 

And  maniac  yells  of  gorgon  sybils  are 

Elysium's  oracles,  and  Zephyr's  voice 

The  music  of  the  blest ;  and  loftiest  minds 

Worship,  in  show,  impostures  they  disdain, 

The  phantoms  of  the  fashion,  that  their  spoil 

May  be  the  richer  booty.     What  reck  they, 

The  masters  of  men's  minds,  who  guides  the  spheres'? 

A  myriad  gods  or  none  to  them  are  one, 

For  all  are  nothing  but  fear's  phantasies. 

Sinris  or  Sciron  less  obeyed  earth's  laws 

Than  they  the  edicts  of  almighty  Jove. 

They  blaspheme  heaven  to  win  the  fame  of  earth* 

The  all-believing,  as  their  priests  ordain, 

Adore  the  Demon  through  his  daughter — 'Sin. 

Ye  know  not  Truth  in  fealty  or  faith — 

And  seas  of  lustral  waters  could  not  cleanse 

Your  tearstained  and  bloodsprinkled  robes  of  guilt !" 

"  By  Hercules,  the  earth-cleaver  !  thy  bold  speech, 
Decurion  once,  but  now  demoniac  Jew  1 
Forebodes  disaster  to  my  king  of  beasts!" 
Said  Diomede,  beneath  a  mocking  scorn 
Veiling  the  wrath  he  could  not  quell  nor  speak* 
41  Am  I  the  patron  of  thy  sole  renown  1 
And  doth  thine  evil  creed  teach  thanklessness? 
I  do  immortalize  thy  robber  skill, 
Learned  in  meet  skirmishes  with  vulture  flocks 
And  hordes  of  wolves  to  win  the  dead  man's  gold, 
And,  with  barbaric  rivals,  to  the  knights 
Of  Latium  and  Apulia  thee  present. 
Thou  art  a  lion-darer,  and  needst  not 
The  famed  Lanista's  discipline  to  lift 
The  woodking's  heart  upon  thy  sabre  point, 
For  thou  hast  learned  the  sleight  offence,  no  fear, 
From  Galilean  trainers,  and  hast  wrought, 


124  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

In  thy  maraudings,  miracles  of  skill. !. 
Rejoice  in  thine  ovation,  Na^arene  ! 
Thou  art  the  Sylla  of  the  games  today ; 
The  Samnite  mockfight  and  the  chariot  race, 
Myrmillo  and  the  Gaul,  the  net  and  mail — 
All  shall  give  place  to  thee  and  Nubia's  beast. 
And  while  thy  glory  soars,  sweet  Venus  wraps 
Her  arms  around  thy  love,  and  sunset  melts 
On  the  pavilion  of  her  soft  delight, 
Where  she  doth  wanton  in  Love's  revelries, 
And  kisses  from  her  roselight  lips  reward 
My  service  in  the  honour  of  thy  name — 
Be  grateful,  renegade  !  thy  bride  is  so  t" 

"  Mock  on,  Blood  Drinker  !  Mariamne  mocks 
Thee  and  thy  wanton  minions,  wheresoe'er 
Beneath  the  Orcus  of  your  power  she  dwells.. 
Seek  not  through  her  dominion  o'er  my  heart ! 
She  hears  a  voice  sweeter  than  Memnon's,  feigned 
To  breathe  daybreak  farewells  when  o'er  the  blue 
Of  lustrous  morn  Aurora's  roselights  gushed; 
She  feels  the  viewless  presence  of  her  God — 
Earth  has  no  power  upon  her  stainless  soul  1 
Therefore,  again,  I  tell  thee,  Rome  shall  wail 
For  all  her  havocs,  treasons,  spoils  and  plagues. 
Oh,  every  empire  of  her  vast  domains 
Hath  its  aceldama,  where  voices  howl 
Anathemas  the  future  shall  fulfil. 
All  power  is  venal  through  her  fated  realms. 
The  rebel's  Rubicon  o'ersweeps  the  land, 
And  all  its  waves  are  blood  !  proscription's  code, 
Taught  by  the  triumvir,  is  the  only  law 
Left  by  unanswering  Caesar  unannulled. 
How  many  ages  with  their  agonies 
Have  perished  since  the  people  had  a  choice 
Of  their  oppressors  ?     What's  the  ordeal,  now, 
Censors  and  consuls  must  endure  ?  and  where 
The  simple  wreath  that  stories  tested  deeds  ? 
All  the  sweet  shadowings  of  old  phantasie, 
The  enchantments  of  religion,  false  and  vain, 
But  glowing,  in  its  earliest  dreams,  with  love — 


CANTO     II.  125 

Arion  and  the  dolphin,  Orpheus 

And  hymning  groves  and  awful  Dis  defied 

By  passion  in  bereavement,  daring  death  ; 

The  su-ngod's  pseans  o'er  the  Cyclades, 

The  charmed  illusions  of  the  Blessed  Isles, 

The  mystery  and  rapture  of  high  thought, 

That  from  the  sacred  porticoes  and  banks 

Of  beautiful  Ilissus  poured  its  light 

O'er  Tyber  and  the  haunts  of  Tusculum — 

All,  now,  have  vanished — and  the  powers  of  air, 

Your  fathers  deemed  their  seraphim,  receive 

From  atheist  scoffers  of  the  time  defiled 

Derision  ;  and  emasculated  vice 

Gloats  over  memories  e'en  Pan  might  loathe. 

— Breathe  not  a  hope  that  vengeance  will  forget ! 

A  darker  doom  than  his,  whose  savage  eyes 

Glared  from  the  marshes  of  Minturnas* — comes  ; 

A  destiny  more  terrible  than  his 

Who  died  blaspheming  in  corruption's  arms,- 

Shameless  in  shame,  at  Puteoli — lours  ! 

The  voice  of  judgment  hath  pronounced  on  sin 

Extinction — and  the  Avengers  are  abroad  ! 

From  the  Ister  and  the  Rha,  the  stormlashed  shores 

Of  the  Codanus  and  Verginian  sea — 

From  glacier  steep  and  torrid  crag— from  vale 

And  wilderness — city  and  waste — shall  rush 

Devourers ;  and  a  thousand  years  shall  weep 

In  darkness  o'er  her  desolated  pomp, 

And  thousand  times  ten  thousand  vassal  hearts 

Live  without  love  and  die  without  regret, 

Boasting  their  bondage,  and  in  titles  won 

By  pandering  to  an  earth-fiend's  lust,  exultr 

And  call  their  shame  patrician  privilege  I 

The  Goth  hath  trod  the  citadel ;  the  Gaul, 

The  Scythian,  Vandal,  Ostrogoth  and  Hun, 

Shall  reap  the  harvest  of  her  ruin  !  Time 

Wafts  on  the  terrible  revenge — the  doom 

Challenged  by  centuries  of  guilt !— I  hear 

The  tocsin  and  the  gong — the  clarion  blast, 

*  Marius.     Sylla  died  at  Puteoli,  as  Herod  afterwards  perished,  of  a  most  loathesome 
disease  and  in  the  midst  of  debaucheries. 


126  THE    LAST    NIGHT  OF    POMPEII. 

The  roar  of  savage  millions  in  their  wrath — 
Barbarian  yells  like  billows  hurled  o'er  rocks — 
And  where  the  Labarum  of  glory  floats 
Triumphant  now — I  see  a  hoar  head  crowned 
By  the  three  diadems  of  earth,  hell,  heaven — 
And  the  bright  land  of  plenty  trod  by  hordes 
Of  bandits,  famished  peasants,  coward  chiefs — • 
All  of  Rome  buried  save  the  tyranny  !" 

"  Well  done,  apostate  !  if  thy  sword  rains  blows 
As  doth  thy  tongue,  words — woe — woe  to  my  beast  I 
Oh,  thou  with  the  Cumaean  prophetess 
Hast  hiddenly  consorted  and  pored  on 
The  almagest  of  Ptolemy  till  stars 
And  meteors  have  become  the  ministers 
Of  thy  distempered  fashioning  of  fate  !" 
Sardonic  smiles  o'er  revel's  swollen  lips 
Passed  slowly,  and  the  Praetor's  jest  had  now 
E'en  from  the  venal  sycophants  small  praise  ; 
For  crime  in  common  natures,  once  unveiled, 
Startles  the  practiser,  and  fear  becomes 
His  hell,  o'ermastering  his  daunted  heart. 
"  And  thou  art  thrilled  by  the  sublime,  and  all 
The  grandeur  of  thy  destiny  overcomes 
Thy  sense  with  its  vast  radiance  !  yet  shrink  not— 
Thou  with  the  wretch  that  fired  the  Ephesian  fane, 
Empedocles  and  Barcochab,  shalt  live* 
In  the  wild  tale  of  endless  infamy, 
Drawn  in  a  prophet's  robes  and  mural  crown ! 
And  my  embraces  shall  solace  the  grief 
Of  thy  rare  Hebrew  Venus,  though  thou  diest, 
And,  if  in  dungeon  thou  art  yet  reserved, 
A  conqueror  now,  to  grace  the  future  games, 
To  her  I  will  rehearse  the  tale  and  laud 
Thy  victory — and 't  is  hard  but  beauty  sheds 
A  guerdon  on  my  service  ! — Dost  thou  smile  ?" 

*  Eratostratus,  to  immortalize  himself,  set  fire  to  the  temple  of  Ephesian  Diana  on  the 
night  Macedonian  Alexander  was  born;  Empedocles,  to  persuade  men  he  was  a  god, 
threw  himself  into  Mount  -/Etna,  but  the  volcano  cast  out  his  slipper  and  betrayed  him ; 
Barcochab,  who  called  himself  the  Son  of  a  Star,  but  whom  his  countrymen  named  the 
Son  of  a  Lie,  was  one  of  the  innumerable  false  prophets  of  that  strange,  rebellious  and 
guilty  people — the  Jews. 


CANTO    II.  127 

4<  Ay,  that  thou  talk'st  of 'future  games,  doomed  lord  ! 
And  ntterest  thy  revenge  in  mockeries  ! 
Yon  sun,  'mid  brazen  heavens  and  sulphur  clouds, 
Now  hastening  to  the  horizon,  ne'er  shall  rise 
On  the  Campanian  cities ;  palace  and  shrine, 
The  battlemented  fortress,  festive  dome, 
Palaestra,  amphitheatre,  and  hall 
Of  judgment  wrested  to  the  despot's  ends — 
The  household  hearth — the  stores  of  merchandise — 
And  many  a  lofty  impious  heart  shall  lie, 
Shrouded  and  sepulchred  in  seas  of  flame, 
Ere  morrow  breaks,  beneath  the  burning  deep. 
And  ages  shall  depart — and  meteors  glare. 
And  constellations  vanish  in  the  void 
Of  the  pale  azure — and  a  thousand  times 
Earth's  generations  perish — ere  the  beams 
Of  morn  shall  light  the  cities  of  the  Dead ! 
Quaff,  feast,  sing,  laugh,  exult  and  mock!  ye  eat 
The  Lectisternian  banquet* — to  the  dead 
Pour  out  libations — gorge  the  appetite — 
Madden  the  brain — let  Phrygian  flutes  inspire 
Your  latest  joys — be  merry  with  the  storm 
That  howls  e'en  now  along  the  Fire-Mount's  depths ! 
For  me,  the  martyr  trusts  his  martyred  God ! 
And  not  for  all  your  grandeur — nor  for  earth's, 
Would  he  partake  your  banquet  and  your  doom  !" 

"  Away  !  away  !  slaves  !  drag  the  traitor  hence  ! 

And,  with  the  gladiators  in  the  cells, 

Let  him  await  the  combat  of  the  beast ! 

My  spirit  wearies  of  his  raven  croak. 

— So,  now  for  better  mirth  !  and  yet  the  shouts 

Of  hurrying  multitudes  unto  the  games 

Invoke  my  presence  and  the  dial  marks 

The  hour  of  carnage — do  ye  cry  for  blood  ? 

By  Jove  !  ye  shall  not  lack,  for  never  gazed 

Imperial  Nero  on  the  sea  of  flame, 

That  surged  along  the  shrieking  capital, 

With  such  a  rapture  as  my  soul  shall  feel 

To  watch  the  lingering  agonies  and  breathe 

*  The  funeral  festival,  the  last  of  all  earthly  indulgencies. 


128  THE  LAST  NIGHT    OF    POMPEII. 

The  last  deep  death-sighs  and  slow  muttered  groans 

Of  that  accursed  despiser  of  my  power  ! 

Come,  friends  !  the  people  shall  be  pampered  now. 

One  cordial  cup  to  vengeance — then  away  ! 

The  chariot  races  wait  my  word — and  shouts 

Rise  like  the  roar  of  ocean  o'er  the  hills, 

While  in  the  ghastly  hell  light  of  the  mount, 

Beneath  whose  deeps  the  Titans  groan,  the  steeds 

Caparisoned  upon  the  towers  uprear 

Their  heads,  struggling  to  spring  upon  their  course; 

And  yon  vast  cloud  of  faces  through  the  gloom 

Looks  with  a  ruthlessness  that  fits  my  mood. 

— Break  up  the  banquet !  let  the  games  begin  !"* 

*  It  was  the  office  of  the  JEdile  to  superintend  the  erection  of  the  public  buildings  and 
to  supervise  all  public  entertainments;  but  it  was  the  prerogative  of  the  Praetor  to  pre 
side,  if  he  pleased,  on  all  memorable  and  solemn  occasions.  Although  it  was  customary 
for  an  inferior  officer  to  direct  the  gladiatorial  combats,  yet,  in  this  instance,  the  tumul 
tuary  passions  of  the  Praetor  led  him  to  assume  a  station  which  would  enable  him,  at  least, 
to  insure  the  death  of  Pansa.  whom  he  had  so  much  reason  to  envy  and  hate. 


CANTO  III. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  Pompeiians  prepare  to  attend  the  games  of  the  amphitheatre.  Cruelty  has  be 
come  universal  custom.  Chariot  races.  The  trumpet  sounds,  the  athlete  and  agonistes 
enter,  and  the  gladiatorial  games  be/^in.  The  first  fatal  combat.  The  second  combat 
between  a  Briton  and  a  Gaul  The  summons  for  the  Christians.  Procession  of  the 
Heathen  Priests  around  the  arena.  Adoration  rendered  to  the  Phidian  Statue  of  Jove.  A 
Christian,  overwhelmed  by  mortal  terror,  apostatizes,  and  is  reserved  to  endure  the  con 
tempt  of  the  Paynims,  whom  in  his  soul  he  abhorred.  Pansa  brought  forth  from  the 
dungeon  to  contend  with  the  African  Lion.  His  appearance  in  the  arena.  His  apos 
trophe  to  the  Statue  of  Jove.  The  ejaculations  of  the  audience,  who  denounce  the  ven 
geance  of  the  gods  on  the  blasphemer  of  their  power.  Pansa's  reply.  The  volcano 
begins  its  ravages.  The  famished  lion  let  loose  upon  Pansa.  His  speech  over  the 
crouching  and  fearful  beast.  Torrents  of  lava  rush  down  the  sides  of  Vesuvius  and 
the  amphitheatre  is  strewn  with  ashes,  cinders,  and  fiery  hail.  The  shrieks  of  multitudes 
rushing  from  Herculaneum  destroyed  by  deluges  of  burning  lava.  Pansa's  warning. 
The  escape  of  the  many  thousand  spectators  of  the  games  through  the  vomitories  of  the 
amphitheatre.  Instinctive  flight  of  the  fearstruck  lion.  The  action  of  the  volcano  de 
scribed.  Dialogue  between  the  Praetor  and  Pansa  alone  in  the  amphitheatre.  The  ty 
rant  and  the  intended  victim  fly  forth  along  the  desolated  streets  of  Pompeii,  the  one  to 
secure  his  treasures,  the  other  to  seek  Mariamne.  The  Christians  meet  and  fly  towarda 
the  sea.  The  vision  of  the  Flamen.  Pansa,  Mariamne,  the  Virgin  of  Pompeii,  and 
the  Aged  Christian  embark  upon  the  agitated  and  discolored  sea.  The  Death  Cries  of 
Pompeii.  The  ruin  consummated.  Farewell  of  the  Christians.  Description  of  their 
refuge  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  The  martyrs  of  Paganism  become  the 
Patriots  of  Christendom. 


THOU  Giant  Phantom  of  the  Old  Renown  ! 
Oh,  mightiest  spirit  of  the  merciless! 
How  like  a  Demon  from  hell's  lava  throne, 
Thou  risest  on  my  eye,  as  I  behold 
The  spectres  of  the  Past,  and  paint  their  deeds  ! 
Up  from  the  abyss  of  ages — from  the  Night 
Of  Earth's  extinguished  generations — rise 
The  beings  of  an  elder  world  to  be 
The  theme  in  song  of  one  whom  all  the  earth, 
And  all  it  hath  or  ever  can  inherit, 
Ne'er  can  solace  for  all  the  woes  of  Time. 
17 


130  THE    LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Now  o'er  the  heaven  of  Thought  the  glimmering  forms 

Of  empires  rent  and  centuries  past  career — 

Now  giant  Shadows  of  the  Buried  move 

Around  me — beautiful  and  haughty  forms — 

Waked  from  the  dust  of  ages  to  endure, 

Again,  the  vanities  of  earth's  best  joys, 

The  certainties  of  evil — (mind  restores 

The  dead) — and  havoc  cries  ascend  the  heavens 

While  to  Pompeii's  waiting  thousands,  groans 

Of  the  convulsed  volcano  give  reply. 

The  feeble  and  the  famishing  and  slaves, 

Whose  toil  a  thousand  years  will  not  reveal, 

Alone  are  seen  upon  the  public  ways ; 

And  every  face  is  chronicled  with  care, 

Loathing  the  lingering  lapse  of  wasted  breath, 

The  purposeless  continuance  of  low  toil 

And  want  and  thankless  servitude,  amid 

The  meshes  of  a  wan  and  dim  despair. 

All  else  find  pastime  in  the  savageness 

Of  games  where  smiles  and  shouts  are  bought  with  blood. 

Quasstor,  sedile,  senator  and  knight, 

Censor  and  flamen,  vestal  and  courtesan, 

Noble  and  commoner,  commingling,  meet 

Amid  the  horrors  of  that  final  day, 

Whose  shuddering  sunlight  to  Pompeii  bids 

Farewell — through  centuries  of  Night  interred, — 

In  torture  to  seek  rapture,  in  the  pangs 

Of  gladiators  gored  and  Christians  gashed 

And  mangled  to  proclaim  their  ecstacies ! 

The  dicer  in  the  midst  suspends  his  skill, 

Tested  by  spoil  wrung  from  the  heart  of  want, 

To  witness  and  applaud  the  guiltier  tests 

Of  science ;  and  the  banqueter  forsakes 

The  wanton  wassail  of  the  flesh  to  seek 

The  richer  revel  of  the  bandit  mind  ; 

And  spotless  vestals  the  electric  fire 

Of  Vesta's  shrine  desert  and  through  their  veils 

Gaze,  from  the  podium*  of  patrician  pride, 

*  What  is  now  the  orchestra — then,  the  envied  place  of  power  and  privilege. 


CANTO    III.  131 

On  sinless  blood  poured  o'er  the  trampled  sand 

From  the  hot  veins  of  causeless  strife  ;  the  judge 

Bears  from  the  Forum  the  remorseless  thoughts, 

Which,  petrified  by  usage,  have  become 

His  Nature,  never  thrilled  by  mercy's  voice. 

The  matron,  whom  dishonour  dares  not  name ; 

The  virgin  in  her  beauty  angel  pure  ; 

The  warrior,  who,  amid  the  Torrid  Zone 

Or  icehills  of  Helvetia,  ne'er  had  learned 

The  strategy  of  pale  retreat,  nor  paused 

In  the  swift  triumph  of  his  bannered  march  ; 

The  merchant,  whose  integrity  no  thought 

Assails  ;  the  poet  from  his  dreams  of  eld, 

Elfland  and  wizardry  and  fabled  gods  ; 

Sages,  by  their  disciples  canonized, 

Who  from  Saturnian  visions,  feigning  power 

Without  oppression  and  republics  stained 

By  no  corruptions,  bosomed  'mid  the  bowers 

Of  the  Evening  Isles  or  Orcades — arise 

To  look  upon  the  agonistes?  face 

Imaging  hell,  and  with  the  circus'  shouts 

Mingle  the  fiats  of  philosophy  !* 

And  augurs  to  perfect  their  oracles 

Come  now  to  gaze  upon  the  cloven  heart 

And  watch  the  spasms  of  Nature's  utter  throes. 

Pompeii's  might  and  affluence  await 

The  Praetor's  voice,  and  the  vast  fabric  gleams 

With  million  glances  and  with  million  cries 

Echoes,  as  from  the  Podium  now  the  word 

Of  Power  commands — «*  Lo !  let  the  games  begin!" 

Cheered  by  the  charioteers,  who  proudly  stand, 
Reining  their  fury,  round  the  battlement 
Rush  the  barbed  chargers,  like  the  samiel  cloud 
O'er  Zara  when  the  tropic  burns  with  death ; 


*  However  the  sages  of  antiquity  condemned  the  cruel  sports  of  their  countrymen, 
they  seldom  hesitated  to  witness  and  thereby  sanction  the  atrocities  which  were  perpe 
trated  in  every  amphitheatre.  Like  the  bullfights  of  modern  Spain,  the  gladiatorial 
contests  (the  death  struggle  of  the  agonistes  and  athlete)  always  attracted  the  presence 
and  enjoyment  of  the  most  learned,  opulent  and  famed  of  the  Romans. 


132  THE  LAST  WIGHT  OP  POJKPElf. 

And  breathless  watchers^  who,  upon  the  racer 
Risk  many  a  talent,  when  they  would  deny 
The  alms  of  one  poor  obolus  to  woe, 
Hang  waiting  sudden  triumph  or  despair. 
One  wins,  the  prelude  closes,  and  the  hostr 
Like  winds  amid  a  wilderness  of  leaves, 
Sink  down  and  to  the  dread  arena  turn. 
The  trumpet  summons — awful  silence  floats. 
Over  the  multitudes  who  fix  their  gaze 
Upon  the  portals  of  the  cells  beneath. 

They  open,  and  the  gladiators  move 
Round  the  thronged  circle  to  display  their  forms,, 
Athlete  and  strong,  and  with  the  voice  of  death 
Salute  the  ruthless  Genius  of  the  Games.* 
From  many  a  kingdom  thralled  they  come — from  realms 
Spoiled  by  the  locust  hordes  of  Rome  ;  the  Gaul, 
The  Briton  and  the  Thracian  and  the  Frank, 
The  Wehrmanne  and  the  Hebrew  and  the  Celt, 
Every  clime's  vanquished — every  age's  wreck, 
All  codes  and  creeds,  strangers  or  friends,  coatencl 
Here  in  assassin  strife  to  please  their  lords. 
One  deep  wild  shout  like  breaking  billows  swells* 
Hailing  the  victims  of  the  carnage  fiend, 
And  on  the  sands  two  stalwart  forms  alone 
Remain ;  and  now  Sigalion,  voiceless  god 
Of  Memphian  mysteries,  of  all  the  host 
Seems  sovereign,  such  a  quivering  stillness  hangs 
Over  the  thousands,  who  await  the  fray 
With  eyes  electric  as  the  ether  fires, 
Lips  sealed  by  passion,  hearts,  like  lava,  still 
In  their  intensest  rapture  !  Bickering  swords 
Clash  quickly,  yet,  with  matchless  skill,  each  blow 
Or  thrust  falls  on  the  flashing  steel;  and  long, 
With  fixed  eyes  dropping  not  their  folded  lids. 
And  marble  lips,  and  brows  whereon  the  veins 
Burn  like  the  stormbolt  o'er  ice  pinnacles, 
And  heaving  bosoms,  naked  in  their  strength, 

*  Morituri  te  falulant!  (the  dead  salute  thee)  were  the  melancholy  words  of 
phecy  uttered  by  all  condemned  to  fight  in  the  arena. 


CANTO  III.  133 

And  limbs  in  every  attitude  of  grace 

And  power — they  struggle,  not  in  hope  of  fame, 

To  win  dominion,  or  achieve  revenge ; 

But  by  their  toil  and  agony  and  blood 

To  amuse  the  languid  masters  of  the  world. 

From  the  free  forest  where  he  walked  a  king, 

From  his  hearth's  altar  where  he  stood  a  priest, 

Hither,  in  manacles,  was  guiltless  man 

Dragged  for  a  mockery  and  gory  show ! 

An  erring  glance — and  o'er  a  prostrate  form 

Of  beauty  stands  the  unrejoicingfoe, 

Sternly  receiving  from  the  merciless 

The  still  command  to  slay  !  and  now  he  lifts 

His  serried  sabre  purpled  to  the  hilt 

With  that  heart's  blood  he  might  have  deeply  loved ; 

One  groan — a  gasp — a  shudder — and  a  soul 

Hath  gone  to  join  the  myriad  witnesses 

Who  in  the  winds  of  northern  wilds  invoke 

The  Desolators  to  avenge  their  doom. 

The  Avengers  hear,  and  cry  aloud  *  Revenge !' 

While  o'er  the  sands  they  drag  the  dead,  and  strew 
The  place  of  carnage  with  uncrimsoned  dust, 
Mirth  reigns  and  voices  mingle  everywhere, 
Lauding  the  skill  of  the  barbarian's  strife, 
The  picturesque  agony — the  lingering  gasp — 
And  awful  struggle  of  the  dying  slave. 
Some  talk  of  Titus,  deeming  him  too  just, 
Gentle  and  generous,  while  conspiracy 
Mutters  Domitian  and  Locasta's  cup.* 
And  some  relate,  looking  upon  the  mount, 
Traditions  of  volcanoes  direr  far 
Than  ought  that  menace  men  in  latter  days ; 
The  depths  of  mountains  boiling — valleys  filled 
With  o'erthrown  hills — and  islands  through  the  floods 
Of  ocean,  apparitions,  to  the  stars 
Casting  the  torrid  terrors  of  their  birth. 
Some  say,  the  Praetor,  when  the  lustrum  ends, 

*  Titus  is  supposed  to  have  been  poisoned  by  his  brother  Domitian — who  was  him 
self  finally  assassinated.     Locasta  was  the  female  fiend  of  Colchian  drugs. 


134  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Will  govern  Syria,  and  the  sage  surmise 
That  confiscation  in  Campania  bought 
The  Senate's  will  that  he  should  rule  the  East. 
Wine,  love,  the  dance,  war,  wealth,  ambition,  hate, 
Earthquake,  plague,  priesthood,  level,  rival  sects 
In  faith  or  knowledge,  yesterday's  delights, 
Tomorrow's  deeds — each,  all,  in  various  speech, 
Absorb  the  mind  until  the  trumpet  sounds. 

Again,  scarce  breathing  stillness  falls — again 
The  gladiators  enter,  and  the  strife, 
Protracted  but  to  close  in  death,  goes  on. 
A  Briton,  from  the  land  of  Caradoc, 
Whose  daily  breath  had  been  Plinlimmon's  breeze, 
Beneath  the  weapon  of  the  Gaul  pours  out 
Blood  glowing  with  the  soul  of  liberty, 
And  dies,  to  Druid  altars  in  the  realm 
Of  Mona,  breathing  back  his  heart,  whose  voice 
Andraste*  in  her  home  of  vengeance,  hears. 
Triumphant  shouts  and  quick  expiring  shrieks, 
Dread  silence  and  hurrahs  and  agonies 
Succeed  each  mortal  fray  ;  and  oft  the  sands, 
Dabbled  by  gory  fingers,  trampled  o'er 
By  feet  that  fail  beneath  the  crushing  strength 
Of  the  grim  victors — freshly  again  are  strewn 
To  bury  blood  which  sunk  not  into  earth, 
But  from  beholding  heaven  drew  down  the  wrath 
That  made  almighty  Rome,  to  every  land, 
A  curse,  a  mockery  and  a  shuddering  jest. 
"  Three  spirits  wander  by  the  spectre  stream  ! 
Are  the  great  people  glutted  with  the  gore  ?' 
Said  Diomede,  for  Pansa's  trial  hour 
With  an  exulting  patience  waiting  long. 
"  Sound  for  the  Christians  and  the  desert  king  ! 
It  darkens  hurriedly  and  lava  hail 
Hurtles  amid  the  ashes !  we  may  rob 
The  God  of  Triumph  of  the  Apostates'  blood, 

*  Or  Andate,  the  British  goddess  of  victory  and  retribution ;  to  whom  sacrifices  were 
offered  amid  the  Llwyn  and  on  the  cromleche  of  the  Druids. 


CANTO  III.  135 

Or  lose  the  rapture  of  their  agonies. 

Throw  wide  the  portals  !  let  the  Christians  come  !" 

The  mitred  ministers  of  idol  rites 
Come  on  in  bannered  pomp  and  conscious  power, 
Circling  the  arena ;  and  the  lictor  guard 
Followed  with  Pansa,  and  another  form 
That  shrunk  and  faltered  as  ten  thousand  eyes 
Searched  out  the  fear  that  harrowed  his  pale  heart. 
Slow  to  the  wail  of  Lydian  flutes  and  blast 
Of  clarions  breathing  death,  with  looks  of  awe 
Feigned  and  drooped  eyes  of  mystery,  around 
Moved  the  procession ;  and  the  PrsesuPs*  gaze 
Wandered,  in  haughty  majesty,  along 
The  risen  and  revering  host  he  blessed. 
Few  think,  for  thought  is  born  of  pain,  and  night 
Hath  not  repose,  nor  day,  free  bliss  to  him 
Whose  spirit  's  rapt ;  yet  all  can  feel  and  fear, — 
For  that  is  flesh— the  earthborn  shadows  cast 
Around  them  by  their  destinies ;  and  they, 
Who  dwell  in  earth's  abundance  and  from  domes, 
Stately  and  glistering,  issue  to  receive 
Guerdons  of  gold  for  oracles  of  wrath, 
Illume  not,  save  with  fires  of  hell,  the  gloom 
That  curtains  the  black  portal  of  the  grave. 
Virtue  needs  HO  interpreter,  and  vice, 
Like  palace  tombs,  mocks  its  own  turpitude, 
When  painted  o'er  with  saintly  imageries  ; 
But  Faith,  that  searches  not,  dreads  every  dream, 
Becoming  to  itself  a  hell,  and  seeks 
Heaven  through  the  pontiff,  who,  in  secret  doubt 
Of  joys  elysian,  craves  earth's  richest  gifts, 
And  at  his  votary's  phantom  banquet  smiles. 

Before  the  image — (wrought  by  Phidias,  when 
His  faithless  country  unto  rival  realms 
Banished  his  genius) — of  the  supreme  Jove, 
The  Pra3sul  paused,  and  with  adoring  zeal 

*The  chief  priest  of  the  Salii— ecclesiastical  guardians  of  the  Ancylia. 


136  THE  LAST   NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Cast  incense  on  the  altar;  and  soft  wreaths 

Of  perfumed  vapour  round  the  eagle's  beak, 

The  lifted  sceptre  and  most  godlike  brow, 

(The  artist's  mind  was  the  sole  deity) 

Curled  as  in  homage,  and  one  blended  voice 

Burst  from  the  thousands — "  Supreme  Jove  is  God  !" 

Then  all  the  priests  from  every  fane  and  all 

The  acolytes  and  soldiers  incense  flung, 

And  the  proud  statue  proudly  seemed  to  smile. 

Next,  bent  and  trembling,  blind  and  dumb  with  fear, 

A  Christian  came  (from  noisome  catacombs 

Dragged  forth  to  prove  his  feebleness  of  faith,) 

Like  the  great  Pisan,*  who  from  midnight  heavens 

Could  summon  the  eternal  stars  and  fill 

His  angel  spirit  with  their  glories,  yet 

Abjured,  in  fear,  before  his  bigot  foes, 

All  the  magnificence  of  thought,  and  knelt, 

A  hoar  apostate,  in  the  dust,  to  win 

The  lingering  torture  of  a  few  sad  hours, 

And  live — a  monument  of  mind  dethroned  ! 

Onward  he  came  with  tottering  childhood's  step, 

And  with  a  face  to  all  but  terror  dead. 

He  loved  the  light,  adored  the  truth,  yet  dared 

Meet  not  the  perils  it  revealed ;  and  now 

He  clung  unto  the  altar  and  gasped  out 

His  panic  breath,  and  gazed  beseeching  round 

In  utter  horror's  wilderment,  and  groped 

Amid  the  shrine  lights  for  the  frankincense, 

With  quivering  fingers  hurriedly;  but  Fear 

Had  quenched  soul,  feeling,  sense — and,  as  his  hand 

Moved  o'er  the  marble  with  a  mindless  aim, 

And  the  wild  pantings  of  his  bosom  spread 

Hues  ghastlier  than  death's  along  his  cheek, 

A  stern  centurion,  with  a  frown  of  scorn 

And  sickened  pity,  from  the  censer  took 

The  idol's  odour  and  upon  the  palm 

Of  the  apostate  threw  it  with  a  curse : 

And  ere  the  lapse  of  thought,  his  worship  flashed 

*  Galileo.     See  Brewster's  life  of  that  great  and  weak  man,  for  an  account  of  his  srd 
recantation  of  his  magnificent  doctrines  and  discoveries. 


CANTO    III.  137 

On  the  stern  aspect  of  the  demon  god  ! 
And,  onward  borne  triumphantly,  he  passed 
To  meet,  through  every  hour  of  haunted  lime, 
Derision  for  denial  of  his  Lord  ! 

Hate  on  his  brow  and  in  his  heart  revenge, 
Diomede  glared  upon  the  lofty  form 
That  now  before  the  awful  statue  stood. 
No  pride,  lightening  defiance,  in  his  eye, 
Dared  the  despair  of  fortune;  no  wild  faith 
Waited  for  miracles;  but  there  he  stood, 
Beautiful  in  the  magnificence  of  Truth, 
Before  the  haughty  scorners  of  chained  kings, 
The  mightiest  and  most  merciless  of  earth, 
His  thought  above  the  proudest  of  them  all, 
And  on  the  countless  eyes,"  that  watched  him,  looked 
With  the  sublime  serenity  unknown 
To  natures  weak  or  terrible  as  hours 
And  their  events  decree.     No  joy,  no  pain 
Changed  the  fixed  features  of  a  calm  resolve  ; 
No  glance  betrayed  a  triumph  in  his  fate, 
Or  doubt  that  might  avert  his  martyrdom. 
Upon  the  still  crowd  rose  his  gentle  eyes 
Blue  and  translucent  as  the  heaven,  as  erst 
The  sungod,  gliding  up  the  glacier  steeps 
Of  Hasmus,  o'er  the  tossed  ^Egean  cast 
His  deathless  smile  among  the  Cyclades. 
Pure  in  his  faith  and  passionless  in  truth, 
He  never  sought  to  seal  with  agony 
The  creed  of  the  Anointed,  but,  instead, 
Shunned  Paynimrie's  resort  and  dwelt  in  wilds, 
Distrusting  the  infirmities  that  oft 
O'ersway  the  spirit ;  but  the  fated  hour 
Had  not  passed  by — the  one  deep  love,  that  chained 
His  heart  to  earth,  was  parted,  it  might  be 
To  welcome  him  to  paradise,  if  not, 
To  meet  his  welcome  there ;  and  now,  beyond 
The  tyrant  passions  of  the  world,  he  stood 
Dauntless  'mid  heathendom,  and  thus,  in  tones 
Strong  as  the  ocean's,  in  whose  utter  deeps 
18 


138  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII  : 

The  Alps  may  sink,  yet  leave  vast  deeps  above, 
He  to  the  image  of  the  Thunderer  spake, 

"Thou  breathless  Mocker  of  the  humble  mind  i 
Thou  Idol  Image  of  remorseless  power  ! 
Shall  being,  quickened  by  the  glowing  blood, 
In  worship  bow  to  theer  a  sculptured  block  ? 
Shall  intellect,  illumed  and  magnified, 
Whose  home  is  ether,  whose  immortal  hope 
Is  deathless  glory,  render  unto  thee 
The  adoration  of  the  Deity  ? 

Oh,  how  should  men  be  just  when  they  have  throned 
Amid  the  universe,  o'erswaying  all, 
A  supreme  vengeance — demon  deified  T 
Whose  common  and  commended  deeds  would  crowr* 
A  mortal  with  the  curses  of  the  world, 
And  round  him  spread  a  solitude  of  hate 
Haunted  alone  by  grovelling  infamies! 
Well  wast  thou  fabled — son  of  Earth  and  Time  I 
For  all  impurities  and  ills  are  thine, 
Transformed  despoiler  !  e'en  thy  votaries  mock 
Yet  rnimic  thee,  as  well  they  may,  the  work 
Of  their  own  lusts  !  Canst  thou  call  forth  one  stair 
Of  all  that  blossom  in  the  boundlessness 
Of  that  undying  heaven  unknown  to  thee  T 
Will  Mazzaroth  or  Mythra  soar  or  sink? 
Or  terrible  behemoth  leave  his  depths'? 
Or  the  proud  desert  bird  feel  nature's  love? 
Because  thou  bidst  1  doth  thine  own  eagle  fear 
The  power  men  quail  at  ?  or  the  tempest  float 
Along  Olympus,  hurling  arrowy  fires, 
In  reverence  to  thy  best  ?  yet  why  is  this  ? 
Methinks,  I  wander  back  to  Pagan  faith, 
Thus  questioning  the  hewn  marble,  which  portrays 
The  apotheosis  of  man's  worst  revenge  ! 
Beneath  the  unimaged,  unimagined  Gor>, 
Who  hath  no  temple  but  infinity, 
Where  the  great  multitude  of  stars  adore. 
Flying  along  their  glorious  spheres — I  stand 
Here  in  thy  home,  (it  fits  thy  nature  well,) 


CANTO  in.  139 

And,  without  awe  or  exultation,  dare 

Deny  thee  incense,  prayer,  love,  fear  and  faith  P' 

Not  louder  in  its  burning  temple  roared 
The  dread  volcano  when  the  firestorm  came, 
And  earth's  ahysses  quivered  in  their  wrath, 
Than  now  the  voices  of  the  phrenzied  host. 
"  Tear  the  blasphemer  !  let  the  wild  beasts  forth 
To  rend  his  limbs  and  gnash  his  living  heart ! 
Impale  the  accursed!  chain  him  within  the  fire! 
Saw  him  asunder!  cast  his  viper  tongue 
Into  the  serpents'  den  to  poison  them !" 
Thus  thousands  shrieked — yet  now  the  shoutings  changed. 
"  Hark  !  Jove  the  Avenger  answers  !  lo  !  the  heavens 
With  shuddering  clouds  are  filled,  and  lightnings  leap 
Through  their  gored  bosoms,  and  the  thunder  shaft 
Bickers  along  the  air!  great  Jove  beholds 
And  hears — now  wither,  thou  blaspheming  slave  !" 

Awed  yet  untrembling,  Pansa  calm  replied. 
"  Ye  hear  no  thunder — but  Destruction's  howl ! 
Ye  see  no  lightning — but  the  lava  glare 
Of  desolation  sweeping  o'er  your  pride  ! 
Death  is  beneath,  around,  above,  within 
All  who  exult  to  inflict  it  on  my  heart, 
And  ye  must  meet  it,  fly  when,  where  ye  will, 
For  in  the  madness  of  your  cruelties 
Ye  have  delayed  till  every  hope  is  dead. 
Let  the  doom  come !  our  faiths  will  soon  be  tried. 
Gigantic  spectres  from  their  shadowy  thrones, 
With  ghastly  smiles  to  welcome  ye,  arise. 
The  Pharaohs  and  Ptolemies  uplift 
Their  glimmering  sceptres  o'er  thee — bidding  all 
Bare  their  dark  bosoms  to  the  Omniscient  God: 
And  every  strange  and  horrid  mythos  waits 
To  fold  ye  in  the  terrors  of  its  dreams. 
— For  thee,  proud  Pra3tor  !  throned  on  human  hearts 
And  warded  by  thy  cohorts  from  the  arm 
Of  violated  virtue  and  spurned  Right, 
And  suffering's  madness — though  thy  regal  tomb 


140  THE    LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII: 

Cepolline  proudly  stand,  thy  scattered  dust 
Shall  never  sleep  within  it ;  years  shall  fade 
And  nations  perish  and  ten  thousand  kings, 
With  all  their  thrice  ten  thousand  victories, 
Rest  in  oblivion,  and  the  very  earth 
Change  with  the  changes  of  her  children,  yet 
The  empty  mansion  of  thy  vain  renown 
Shall  stand  that  generations  unconceived 
May  ask  the  deeds  of  hirn  who  was  cast  out 
By  vengeance  from  his  father's  sepulchres !" 

Diomede's  voice,  like  a  wild  blast,  went  forth. 
"  Let  loose  the  wild  beasts  on  him  !  why  are  we 
Thus  left  to  bear  the  traitor's  arrogance  ? 
The  convict's  scorn  ?  the  gladiator's  speech  f 
Let  loose  the  only  foe  that  fits  his  faith ; 
The  Mauretanian's  arguments  are  meet 
And  suit  his  mystic  cabala.     Throw  wide 
The  cells  and  let  the  lion  make  reply." 

"  The  outer  corridors,"  the  Lanista  said, 
"Are  filled  with  ashes,  and  within  the  vaults1 
Arches  have  fallen  and  no  power  can  ope 
The  portal  of  the  Atlas  beast,  my  lord  !" 

"  Bring  a  ballista,  then,  and  shatter  it ! 
For  by  the  eternal  Fates  and  all  the  Gods  ! 
This  darer  and  blasphemer  shall  not  scape. 
Let  none  depart !  why,  would  the  people  shun 
The  luxury  of  this  despiser's  pangs, 
Or  doth  his  airy  talk  infect  your  souls 
And  sway  your  thoughts  by  oracles  of  woe  ? 
Spare  Nazarenes  !  who  would  o'erturn  the  creed 
And  code  of  Rome,  and  on  the  throne  of  earth 
Exalt  the  image  of  a  felon  God  ! 
Be  wise,  stern,  ruthless,  men ! — so,  dash  to  earth 
The  portal  and  goad  on  the  savage  king  !" 

Still  by  Jove's  altar  standing,  Pansa  looked 
Upon  the  fluctuating  host  around, 


CANTO  III.  141 

Some  with  fear  trembling,  some  with  baffled  hate, 
Some  silent  in  excess  of  passion,  some 
Most  earnest  to  behold  the  game  of  death, 
And  thus,  like  a  cathedral  knell,  he  spake. 
"  I  show  ye  mercy  none  will  show  to  me ! 
Fly  !  ere  the  banners  of  the  galleys  wave 
Beyond  the  cape  !  fly,  ere  the  earth  and  air 
Become  the  hell  that  fiction  fables!  fly 
Ere  carnage  shrieks  amid  the  torrent  fire ! 
For  me  't  is  nought — for  you,  't  is  all — away  !'* 
Yet,  mocking  truth  and  justice,  all  from  flight 
Turned  back,  and  in  the  joy  of  shedded  blood 
Leaned  o'er  the  arena.     From  the  shattered  cell 
The  famished  lion  sprung,  with  coiling  mane 
And  fiendish  eyes  and  jaws  that  clashed  for  gore. 

"  Take  thy  sword,  Christian  !  at  thy  foot   it  lies — 

And  let  the  heathen,  as  thou  callest  them,  mark 

And  laud  thy  skill  in  combat !  take  thy  sword  !  " 

A  demon  smile  convulsed  the  Praetor's  lip, 

Yet  Pansa,  in  the  deep  unshaken  voice 

Of  Truth's  immortal  sanctity  replied. 

"  The  Martyr  needs  no  weapon  :  his  defence, 

Shield,  sabre,  helm,  spear,  banner,  all  are  one. 

A  breath  from  the  Eternal — a  quick  ray 

From  the  immortality  of  God — he  lives 

But  in  His  mercy,  dies  but  when  He  wills. 

— Thou  mightiest  monarch  of  the  forest  beasts  ! 

Who,  from  the  heights  of  Atlas,  on  the  brow 

Of  perpendicular  precipice,  alone, 

Planting  thine  armed  foot,  hast  looked  o'er  sea 

And  waste,  fearing  no  equal ;  or  among 

The  haunted  wrecks  of  Carthage,  in  the  pangs 

Of  hunger  ravining,  hast  found  no  food 

Where  a  great  nation  died  that  Rome  might  reign. 

Thou  fiercest  terror  of  the  wilderness  ! 

Who,  without  contest,  dost  consume  thy  foe, 

And  walkst  the  earth  a  conqueror  and  a  king ! 

Upon  thee — though  the  extreme  of  famine  gnaws 

Thy  vitals  now— and  thy  flesh  burns  with  stripes 


142  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII  : 

Given  to  madden  thee,  and  round  and  round 
With  Titan  limbs  thou  leapst  in  bitter  joy 
Of  human  banquet,  watching  with  fierce  eyes, 
Terrible  as  is  the  simoom  of  thy  clime, 
The  moment  of  thy  certain  victory — 
Upon  thee  now  I  fix  the  eye,  whose  light 
Was  born  of  GOD'S  Eternity,  and  while 
Destruction  from  the  face  of  Deity 
Lours  o'er  creation,  I  do  bid  thee  kneel 
There  in  the  gory  dust !  ay,  by  the  Power 
Of  HIM  who  made  thee,  monster !  1  command." 

A  roar,  as  if  a  myriad  thunders  burst, 
Now  hurtled  o'er  the  heavens,  and  the  deep  earth 
Shuddered,  and  a  thick  storm  of  lava  hail 
Rushed  into  air  to  fall  upon  the  world. 
And  low  the  lion  cowered,*  with  fearful  moans 
And  upturned  eyes,  and  quivering  limbs,  and  clutched 
The  gory  sand  instinctively  in  fear. 
The  very  soul  of  silence  died,  and  breath 
Through  the  ten  thousand  pallid  lips  unfelt 
Stole  from  the  stricken  bosoms ;  and  there  stood 
With  face  uplifted  and  eyes  fixed  on  air, 
(Which  unto  him  was  thronged  with  angel  forms) 
THE  CHRISTIAN — waiting  the  high  will  of  heaven. 

A  wandering  sound  of  wailing  agony, 
A  cry  of  coming  horror  o'er  the  street 
Of  Tombs  arose,  and  all  the  lurid  air 
Echoed  the  shrieks  of  hopelessness  and  death. 

*  A  scene  somewhat  like  this  is  depicted  in  "  The  Vestal"  a  little  work  published,  a 
few  years  since,  and  written  by  Dr  Gray,  then  of  Boston.  But,  while  I  am  happy  to 
acknowledge  the  pleasure  I  have  derived  from  that  elegant  story,  I  must  be  allowed  to 
say  that  the  causes  of  the  lion's  submission  are  unlike.  He  cowers  at  the  feet  of  the  j 
aged  Christian  in  that  work,  because  he  sees  an  old  master ;  here,  he  is  made  to  submit 
on  the  well  known  principle  familiar  to  naturalists,  that,  during  any  great  convulsion  of 
nature,  the  most  savage  animals  forget  their  common  animosities,  and  that  the  lion  will 
not  attack  a  man  who  steadily  fixes  his  eyes  upon  him.  Having  formed  the  plan  of 
the  whole  poem  and  finished  a  considerable  portion  of  it  previous  to  my  first  perusal 
of  the  "Tale  of  Pompeii,"  I  was  unwilling  to  forego  the  scene  I  had  conceived  previous 
to  even  the  knowledge  of  the  publication  of  Di  Gray. 


CANTO  III.  143 

Then  through  the  gates  and  o'er  the  city  rushed 
A  ghastly  multitude,  naked  and  black 
With  sulphur  fumes  and  spotted  o'er  with  marl 
That  clung  unto  the  agonizing  flesh 
Like  a  wronged  orphan's  curse.     In  terror  blind, 
They  rushed,  in  dreadful  companies,  along 
The  quaking  earth,  'neath  darkened  heavens,  and  e'er 
Their  awful  voices  howled  the  horrors  forth. 
"  Destroyed  !  wrecked  in  its  beauty — all  destroyed  ! 
Billows  of  lava  boil  above  the  towers 
Of  Herculaneum  !  we  alone  are  left ! 
The  lovely  city  !  all  our  happy  homes  1 
Buried  in  blackness  'neath  a  sea  of  fire ! 
The  deluge  came  along  the  shattering  rocks — • 
We  fled  and  met  another — yet  again 
We  turned  dismayed  and  a  third  fiery  flood 
Came  down  in  ruin's  grandeur  on  our  path! 
Between  the  mountain  and  the  sea  we  scaped. 
Oh,  many  a  corse  beneath  the  depths  hath  sunk 
In  seas  of  fire,  that  o'er  our  city  roll, 
Boiling  in  deeps  of  blackness  !  on  ! — away  ! 
What  fated  madness  holds  the  death-games  now  ? 
Pompeii !  fly,  the  Fates  delay  not  here  !" 
Down  to  the  dark  convulsive  sea  they  rushed, 
O'er  them  the  volcano,  and  beneath, 
The  earthquake,  and  around,  ruin  and  death. 

"  Hear  ye  not  now?"  said  Pansa.     "  DEATH  is  here  ! 
Ye  saw  the  avalanche  of  fire  descend 
Vesuvian  steeps,  and  in  its  giant  strength 
Sweep  on  to  Herculaneum ;  and  ye  cried, 
'  It  threats  not  us,  why  should  we  lose  the  sport  ? 
Though  thousands  perish,  why  should  we  refrain  V 
Your  sister  city — the  most  beautiful — 
Gasps  in  the  burning  ocean — from  her  domes 
Fly  the  survivors  of  her  people,  driven 
Before  the  torrent  floods  of  molten  earth 
With  desolation  red — and  o'er  her  grave 
Unearthly  voices  raise  the  heart's  last  cries — 
4  Fly,  fly  !  O  horror !  O  my  son  !  my  sire  !' 


144  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII : 

The  hoarse  shouts  multiply;  without  the  mount 

Are  agony  and  death— within,  such  rage 

Of  fossil  fire  as  man  may  not  behold  ! 

Hark !  the  Destroyer  slumbers  not — and  now, 

Be  your  theologies  but  true,  your  Jove, 

'Mid  all  his  thunders,  would  shrink  back  aghast, 

Listening  the  horrors  of  the  Titans'  strife. 

The  lion  trembles ;  will  ye  have  my  blood  ? 

Or  flee,  ere  Herculaneurn's  fate  is  yours?" 

Vesuvius  answered  :  from  its  pinnacles 
Clouds  of  far-flashing  cinders,  lava  showers, 
And  seas,  drank  up  by  the  abyss  of  fire 
To  be  hurled  forth  in  boiling  cataracts, 
Like  midnight  mountains,  wrapt  in  lightnings,  fell. 
Oh,  then,  the  love  of  life  !    the  struggling  rush, 
The  crushing  conflict  of  escape  !  few,  brief, 
And  dire  the  words  delirious  fear  spake  now — 
One  thought,  one  action  swayed  the  tossing  crowd. 
All  through  the  vomitories  madly  sprung, 
And  mass  on  mass  of  trembling  beings  pressed, 
Gasping  and  goading,  with  the  savageness 
That  is  the  child  of  danger,  like  the  waves 
Charybdis  from  his  jagged  rocks  throws  down, 
Mingled  in  madness — warring  in  their  wrath. 
Some  swooned  and  were  trod  down  by  legion  feet ; 
Some  cried  for  mercy  to  the  unanswering  gods ; 
Some  shrieked  for  parted  friends  forever  lost ; 
And  some,  in  passion's  chaos,  with  the  yells 
Of  desperation  did  blaspheme  the  heavens  ; 
And  some  were  still  in  utterness  of  woe. 
Yet  all  toiled  on  in  trembling  waves  of  life 
Along  the  subterranean  corridors. 
Moments  were  centuries  of  doubt  and  dread ; 
Each  breathing  obstacle  a  hated  thing : 
Each  trampled  wretch,  a  footstool  to  o'erlook 
The  foremost  multitudes ;  and  terror,  now, 
Begat  in  all  a  maniac  ruthlessness, 
For  in  the  madness  of  their  agonies 


CANTO    III.  145 

Strong  men  cast  down  the  feeble,  who  delayed 

Their  flight,  and  maidens  on  the  stones  were  crushed, 

And  mothers  maddened  when  the  warrior's  heel 

Passed  o'er  the  faces  of  their  sons  ! — The  throng 

Pressed  on,  and  in  the  ampler  arcades  now 

Beheld,  as  floods  of  human  life  rolled  by, 

The  uttermost  terrors  of  the  destined  hour. 

In  gory  vapours  the  great  sun  went  down ; 

The  broad  dark  sea  heaved  like  the  dying  heart, 

'Tween  earth  and  heaven  hovering  o'er  the  grave, 

And  moaned  through  all  its  waters;  every  dome 

And  temple,  charred  and  choked  with  ceaseless  showers 

Of  suffocating  cinders,  seemed  the  home 

Of  the  triumphant  desolator,  DEATH. 

One  dreadful  glance  sufficed — and  to  the  sea, 

Like  Lybian  winds,  breathing  despair,  they  fled. 

Nature's  quick  instinct,  in  most  savage  beasts, 
Prophesies  danger  ere  man's  thought  awakes, 
And  shrinks  in  fear  from  common  savageness, 
Made  gentle  by  its  terror  ;  thus,  o'erawed 
E'en  in  his  famine's  fury  by  a  Power 
Brute  beings  more  than  human  oft  adore, 
The  Lion  lay,  his  quivering  paws  outspread, 
His  white  teeth  gnashing,  till  the  crushing  throngs 
Had  passed  the  corridors ;  then,  glaring  up 
His  eyes  imbued  with  samiel  light,  he  saw 
The  crags  and  forests  of  the  Apennines 
Gleaming  far  off,  and  with  the  exulting  sense 
Of  home  and  lone  dominion,  at  a  bound, 
He  leapt  the  lofty  palisades  and  sprung 
Along  the  spiral  passages,  with  howls 
Of  horror  through  the  flying  multitudes 
Flying  to  seek  his  lonely  mountain  lair. 

From  every  cell  shrieks  burst ;  hyaenas  cried 
Like  lost  child,  wandering  o'er  the  wilderness, 
That,  in  deep  loneliness,  mingles  its  voice 
With  wailing  winds  and  stunning  waterfalls ; 
The  giant  elephant  with  matchless  strength 
19 


146  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Struggled  against  the  portal  of  his  tomb, 

And  groaned  and  panted ;  and  the  leopard's  yell 

And  tiger's  growl  with  all  surrounding  cries 

Of  human  horror  mingled;  and  in  air, 

Spotting  thejlurid  heavens  and  waiting  prey, 

The  evil  birds  of  carnage  hung  and  watched, 

As  ravening  heirs  watch  o'er  the  miser's  couch. 

All  awful  sounds  of  heaven  and  earth  met  now ; 

Darkness  behind  the  sungod's  chariot  rolled, 

Shrouding  destruction,  save  when  volcan  fires 

Lifted  the  folds  to  glare  on  agony  ; 

And  when  a  moment's  terrible  repose 

Fell  on  the  deep  convulsions,  all  could  hear 

The  toppling  cliffs  explode  and  crash  below, 

While  multitudinous  waters  from  the  sea 

In  whirlpools  through  the  channelled  mountain  rocks 

Rushed,  and,  with  hisses  like  the  damned's  speech, 

Fell  in  the  mighty  furnace  of  the  mount. 

Tyrant  not  dastard,  daring  in  his  guilt 
And  fearless  of  its  issues,  Diomede 
Frowned  on  the  panic  flight,  and,  in  his  wrath, 
Man,  earth  and  heaven,  demons  and  gods  defied. 
"The  craven  people — e'en  my  very  slaves 
Have  fled  as  dustborn  vassals  ever  flee, 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  marble  gods 
And  howling  savageness,  'mid  showers  of  flame. 
Gods !  I  trust  not  elysium  feigned  by  them 
Who  make  the  earth  a  very  mock  of  hell. 
Ay,  roar,  yell,  struggle  till  your  fierce  hearts  burst ! 
And  with  thy  thousand  thunders  shake  the  throne 
Of  Jove,  Vesuvius!  and  the  world  confound  ! 
I  have  not  loved  nor  sought  the  love  of  man, 
And  higher  than  his  nature  I  know  not, 
Nor  lower ;  and  alone  I  sit  to  laugh 
At  mortal  fear  and  dare  immortal  hate, 
For,  if  ought  die  not,  't  is  revenge  and  pain." 

"  Hath  memory  wed  with  madness  that  thou  sayst 
4  Alone/  proud  Praetor  ?  one  yet  looks  on  Jove 


CANTO  III.  147 

And  sees  no  deity ;  one  yet  awaits 
The  pleasure  of  Campania's  haughty  lord. 
The  hour  and  scene  fit  well  the  deadly  fight, 
Yet  I  behold  no  foe  ;  what  wouldst  thou  more  ?" 
Pansa  stood  motionless  and  spake  in  scorn. 

"  Thou  damned  Nazarene  !  the  imperial  law 
Shall  forge  new  tortures  for  thy  treacheries, 
Thy  necromancies  and  apostate  deeds. 
Meantime,  exult,  thank,  praise  and  bless  thy  God, 
Convict  redeemer,  buried  deity, 
That  my  condition  fits  not  contest  now 
With  thine,  or  wolves  should  gash  and  gnaw  thy  limbs, 
And  eagles'  talons  bear  to  mountain  cliffs 
Thy  heart  yet  quivering  with  the  pulse  of  fear. 
Some  fiendish  potence  foils  me  now ;  again 
Thou  shalt  not  win  fire-fiends  unto  thy  aid  : 
Pompeii  yet  shall  celebrate  thy  death — 
Again,  thou  shalt  not  scape  though  hell  arise  !" 

Like  the  last  echo  of  a  trumpet's  blast, 
Thus,  in  his  last  reply,  rose  Pansa's  voice. 
"Again  we  shall  not  meet  in  all  the  realms 
Of  universal  being — all  the  hours 
That  linger  o'er  eternity  !  we  part 
Forever,  now,  each  to  his  deathless  doom. 
But  had  not  other  creed  than  vengeance  filled 
A  Roman's  mind  with  mercy,  words  like  thine, 
(Now  thy  praetorians  leave  us  twain,  the  one 
With  all  to  lose,  the  other,  all  to  gain,) 
Would  bring  a  direr  parting  hour,  howe'er 
Thy  Punic  blood  and  Volscian  pride  revolt. 
Oh,  thou  may'st  scoff!  thou  wouldst  outdare  the  fiends 
And  mock  in  Orcus  sin's  undying  moans ; 
But  here  we  part,  proud  victim!  so,  farewell! 
JEHOVAH'S  wrath  is  o'er  thee — o'er  us  all — 
The  shocked  earth  cries  unto  the  blackened  heavens, 
The  mighty  heart  of  earthly  being  bursts. 
And  thou  shalt  quickly  know  what  Hebrew  awe 
Trembled  to  hear— EL  SHADDAI  !  't  is  a  name 


148  THE    LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEM. 

The  phantoms  ye  adore  and  curse  have  borne 
Vainly — yon  mount  is  its  interpreter — 
The  ALMIGHTY  looks  in  lightning  from  His  throne, 
Jove's  shrine  is  covered  with  the  lava  shower,. 
The  ashes  gather  round  me  !  oh,  farewell !" 

Through  deepening  cinders,  tossing  sulphur  clouds* 
And  victims  shrieking  in  their  agonies, 
The  Pra?tor  sought  his  way.     His  harnessed  steeds, 
Maddened  by  fear,  had  with  his  chariot  flown, — 
The  charioteer  had  perished  'neath  the  wheels : 
And  haughtily  through  all  the  Street  of  Tombs, 
Among  the  whirlpool  waves  of  human  life, 
And  lighted  by  destruction's  breath  of  flame,. 
He  struggled  tow'rd  his  palace,  to  the  wrath 
Of  heaven  fronting  defiance,  e'en  while  Death 
Dwelt  in  the  bosom  of  all  elements 
And  the  world  trembled  !  Hastening  to  his  home, 
Of  power  mid  Syrian  splendors  and  a  fame 
Immortal  as  the  flatterer's  pander  verse, 
He  dreamed ;  and  bearing  to  the  vaulted  crypt, 
Whose  labyrinths  wandered  far  beneath  the  hills* 
His  gold  and  gems,  he  on  his  household  closed 
The  marble  door,  deeming  their  safety  won, 
Whose  strangled  death  cries  rose  unheard — whose  bones 
The  daily  sunlight  of  a  thousand  years 
Ne'er  visited  beneath  the  deeps  of  death. 

. 

Pansa,  meantime,  in  gladiator  guise, 
By  other  paths  had  hurried  from  the  scene ; 
And  though  the  shuddering  earth,  and  lurid  heavens 
Writhed  as  in  immortal  agonies,  and  shrieks 
And  death  groans  rose  through  all  Pompeii's  bounds, 
Yet  on  he  rushed — fearless  though  fraught  with  fear. 
Vesuvius  poured  its  deluge  forth,  the  sea 
Shuddered  and  sent  unearthly  voices  up, 
The  isles  of  beauty,  by  the  fire  and  surge 
Shaken  and  withered,  on  the  troubled  waves 
Looked  down  like  spirits  blasted  ;  and  the  land 
Of  Italy's  one  paradise  became 


CANTO  III.  149 

The  home  of  ruin — vineyard,  grove  and  bower, 

Tree,  shrub,  fruit,  blossom — love,  life,  light,  and  hope, 

All  vanishing  beneath  the  fossil  flood 

And  storm  of  ashes  from  the  cloven  brow 

Of  the  dread  mountain  hurled  in  horror  down. 

The  echoes  of  ten  thousand  agonies 

Arose  from  mount  and  shore,  and  some  looked  back 

Cursing,  and  more  bewailing  as  they  fled, 

With  glowing  marl  or  ashes  on  their  heads. 

"  Thou  one  great  Spirit  of  all  being !  here, 
Where  power  is  helplessness,  and  hope,  a  dream, 
Here  'mid  the  horror  of  the  havoc,  breathe 
Thy  smile  upon  my  soul ;  and  time  and  death, 
With  all  their  anguish,  shall  o'erawe  me  not !" 
Imploring  thus,  the  Christian  held  his  way 
Through  the  wild  scene,  with  undefined  impulse, 
Nor  shunning  death,  nor  daring  it,  but  filled 
With  emanations  of  undying  faith. 

A  voice,  whose  tones,  like  music  heard  when  youth 
Lives  in  the  visions  of  the  blue  blest  heaven, 
Thrilled  the  quick  heart  of  Pansa,  from  the  gloom 
Of  a  lone  street  came  forth,  and  bended  forms 
Stole  from  the  hutted  refuge  of  despair, 
And  tow'rd  the  Appian  by  the  Forum  fled. 
And  through  the  night  the  voice  of  age  went  up.* 

"  Tarry  not,  daughter,  for  these  aged  limbs  ! 
Dust  they  soon  must  be — though  the  world  revered — 
And,  if  my  hour  be  come,  the  woe  is  past. 
But  hasten,  daughter!  moments  have  become 
Ages — the  air,  the  earth,  the  ocean  blend 
Their  agonizing  energies — away ! 
Beneath  the  o'erhung  rocks — where  fishers  wont 
To  moor  their  boats,  now  stranded  on  the  beach, 
The  pinnace  lies  I  spake  of— and  the  word 
Is  Marcion !  Thither,  without  let  or  fear, 

*  That  is,  of  the  aged  Christian  with  whom  Mariamne  had  taken  refuge  on  her  es 
cape  from  the  temple  of  Venus. 


150  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Hasten :  a  Christian  from  Tergeste*  holds 
Command,  and,  ere  an  hour,  its  oars  and  sails 
Shall  waft  you  far  from  ruin  round  us  now." 

"  Nay,  father  !  to  the  shadow  of  your  roof 
I  hurried  when  the  violator's  wrath 
Hung  o'er  me — and  thine  own  familiar  fears 
Denied  me  not  a  refuge!  we  shall  sleep 
Mid  fire  together  or  together  flee. 
Yet  more — no  barque  shall  bear  me  from  the  beach 
Till  the  last  hope  expires  that  from  his  bonds 
Pansa  may  burst  to  bear  us  company. 
Perchance,  among  the  fugitives,  e'en  now, 
He  flies,  and  wanders  by  the  ocean  marge" — 

On  through  the  death-storm  the  Decurion  sprung. 
"  No,  Mariamne  !  my  beloved  restored  ! 
Here,  in  the  home  of  desolation,  here, 
I  fold  thee  spotless  to  my  happy  heart! 
And  find  my  paradise  in  ruin's  arms ! 
But  here  we  pause  not  to  pour  out  our  souls. 
A  pinnace  lies  beneath  the  cliffs,  sayst  thou  1 
Thy  hoary  wisdom  hath  redeemed  us,  sage ! 
Stay  thy  weak  limbs  upon  my  strength  !  on  !  on  ! 
I  snatched  the  slaughtered  gladiator's  helm — 
Cast  o'er  your  heads  your  mantles — so,  away!" 

Down  the  steep  path  unto  the  moaning  sea 
They  passed  with  quickened  steps,  and  upward  glanced 
The  maiden  of  the  vaults  of  Isis,  once, 
Eyes  floating  in  the  farewell  tears  of  love, 
As  by  the  black  and  desolated  home 
Of  all  her  childhood's  innocence  and  bliss, 
They  fled  like  shades  and  to  the  ramparts  came. 
Upon  them,  by  the  volcan  glare  revealed, 
Wandered  the  hoary  idol  priest  of  Jove 
In  maniac  horror ;  and  amidst  the  roar, 
The  riot  and  the  wreck  of  earth  and  heaven, 
Thus  rose  his  awful  voice  in  prophecies. 

*  Trieste. 


CANTO  III.  151 

THE  VISION  OF  THE  FLAMAN. 

Call  in  thy  cohorts,  Rome  !  from  every  land 

Thy  power  hath  deluged  with  unsinning  blood ! 
Call  in  thy  legions  from  Iberia's  strand, 

From  Albion's  rocks,  and  Rhoetia's  mountain  wood  ! 
The  foe,  like  glaciers  hurled 
Through  darkness  on  the  trembling  world, 
Springs  from  his  forest  in  the  wildest  north, 

Scenting  his  prey  afar : 

And,  like  the  samiel,  from  the  waste  comes  forth 
To  steep  your  glories  in  the  gore  of  war. 

Hark  !  the  whole  earth  rejoices  ! 
Sea  shouts  to  isle  and  mountain  unto  main, 

And  ocean  to  the  heaven,  with  myriad  voices — 
Rome's  sepulchre  shall  be  amid  her  slain, 
And  as  she  spared  not,  none  shall  spare  her  now, 
But  Hun,  Goth,  Vandal,  Alemanne  and  Frank 
Shall  lift  the  poison  cup  all  earth  hath  drank, 

And  steep  her  shuddering  lips,  and  on  her  brow 
Pour  blood  for  ointment,  and  upon  her  head, 
Till  thousand  ages  have  in  darkness  fled, 
Mocking,  press  down 
The  accursed  crown 
Which  shall  not  cease  to  bleed  as  conquered  men  have  bled  ! 

Thy  monarchs,  slaves  to  every  lust  and  crime, 
Shall  fall,  as  they  have  fallen,  by  the  sword, 
Or  Colchian  chalice,  and  unweeping  time 
O'erthrow  the  deities  by  dust  adored, 
And  leave  but  ruin  to  lament 
O'er  pillar,  shrine  and  battlement, 
And  solitude  o'er  desert  realms  to  moan, 
Where  warriors  mocked  chained  kings  and  called  the  world 

their  own ! 
The  coalblack  petrel  and  the  grey  curlew 

Shall  wing  thy  waters  and  see  not  th.y  sail  ; 
From  trembling  towers  the  stork  shall  watch  the  blue 
Of  the  lone  heavens  and  hear  no  hum.an  hail : 

For  in  the  vales  that  bask  in  bloom., 
The  Pontine's  flowers,  the  bright  Mairernma's  green. 


152  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII  : 

Shall  dwell  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 
In  Love's  voluptuous  arms,  the  tyrant  death  unseen  ! 

And  Nero's  golden  house  shall  be 
The  pallid  serfs  abode, 

And  tombs  imperial,  soaring  from  the  sea, 
Shall  guide  the  corsair  through  his  night  of  blood. 
Despair  with  folded  wings, 

Where  the  Eagle's  pinions  hung, 
Shall  cower  beneath  the  throne  of  kings, 

Who  o'er  the  Alps  the  curse  of  hell  have  flung. 

Woe  to  the  beautiful !  the  barbarian  comes ! 

Woe  to  the  proud !  the  peasant  lays  thee  low ! 
Woe  to  the  mighty !  o'er  your  kingly  domes 

The  savage  banner  soars — the  watchfires  glow; 
Triumph  and  terror  through  the  Forum  rush, 

Art's  trophies  vanish — learning's  holy  lore, — 
Alaric  banquets  while  red  torrents  gush,  . 

Attila  slumbers  on  his  couch  of  gore  ! 
And  there  the  eye  of  ruin  roams 

O'er  guilt  and  grief  and  desolation ; 
And  there  above  a  thousand  homes 

The  voice  of  Ruin  mourns  a  buried  nation. 
Buried,  O  Rome !  not  like  Campania's  cities, 

To  wake  in  beauty  when  the  centuries  flee, 
But  in  the  guilt  and  grief  and  shame  none  pities, 

The  living  grave  of  guilt  and  agony ! 
Alas !  for  Glory  that  must  close  in  gloom  ! 

Alas  !  for  Pride  that  loves  the  tyrant's  scorn  ! 

Alas  !  for  Fame  that  from  the  Scipio's  tomb 
Rises  to  look  on  infamy  and  mourn  ! 
But  Vengeance,  "wandering  long, 
With  many  a  battle  hymn  and  funeral  song, 
Shakes  Fear's  pale  slumber  from  earth's  awestruck  eyes, 
And  bids  Sarmatia's  hordes  redeem  her  agonies  ! 

Yet  not  alone  the  civic  wreath, 

The  conqueror's  laurel,  the  triumpher's  pride, 
Shall  wither  'neath  the  samiel  eye  of  Death ; 

On  Rome's  old  mount  of  glory  shall  abide, 


CANTO  HI.  153 

Tiar'd  and  robed  like  the  Orient's  vainest  kings, 

The  hoar  devoter  of  earth's  diadems  ;* 
His  glance  shall  haunt  the  heart's  imaginings — 

His  footfall  shall  be  felt  where  misers  hoard  their  gems  ! 
And  from  the  palace  of  the  Sacred  Hill 

The  thrice  crown'd  pontiff  shall  to  earth  dispense 
The  awful  edict  of  his  mighty  vviJl, 

And  reign  o'er  mind  in  Fear's  magnificence. 
Prince,  peasant,  bandit,  slave  shall  bow 

Beneath  his  throne  in  voiceless  adoration, 
And  years  of  crime  redeem  by  one  wrung  vow; 

And  age  on  age  shall  die — and  many  a  nation 
Sink  in  the  shadow  of  the  tyrant's  frown 
And  disappear, 
Without  a  song  or  tear, 
While  clarion'd  conquerors  tread 
In  hymned  triumph  o'er  the  dead ; 
And  wild  barbarian  hordes, 
Whose  faith  and  fealty  hang  upon  their  swords, 

Shall  feel  the  mellowing  breath  of  human  love, 
And  dwell  entranced  amid  romance  and  lore ; 

Yet  from  the  awful  Vatican  no  dove 
Shall  bear  freewill  to  any  earthly  shore  ! 

But  he,  the  Rock  amid  the  ruins  old 
Of  mythologic  temples,  shall  o'ersway 

The  very  earth,  till  thrones  and  kingdoms  sold — 
And  empires  blasted  in  the  blaze  of  day — 

Awake  the  world — and  from  the  human  heart 
The  crushing  mountain  of  Oppression  cast  ; 

Then  man  shall  bid  all  tyrannies  depart, 
And  from  the  blue  blest  heavens  elysium  dawn  at  lust !" 

i  *,'*"*'  '**'.."  *          ' ''      *          r  '        *  »>^ 

"  How  like  the  gusty  moans  of  tempest  nights 
O'er  the  broad  winter  wilderness,  that  voice 
Ascends;  and  what  a  horrid  gleam  is  flung 

*  The  allusion  throughout  is  to  what  was,  for  a  long  time,  an  almost  omnipotent 
sovereignty — the  Popedom  ;  and  even  the  very  strictest  disciple  of  papal  supremacy 
must  lament  the  desecration  of  almost  unlimited  power  in  the  hands  of  many  who  bet 
ter  understood  the  law  of  might,  the  pageantries  of  the  tournament,  the  forms  of  the 
duello,  the  intrigues  of  diplomacy,  and  the  dominion  of  the  castle,  than  the  edicts  and 
ceremonies  and  devotions  of  the  pontificate-  The  "  Rock  amid  the  ruins  "  alludes  to 
Peter,— in  the  Greek, 

•20 


154  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

Along  that  face  of  madness,  as  it  turns 
.    From  sea  to  mountain,  and  the  wild  eyes  burn 
With  revelations  of  the  unborn  time  ! 
We  may  not  linger — shelter  earth  denies — 
The  very  heavens  like  a  gehenna  lour — 
And  ocean  is  our  refuge — on — on — on  ! 
Yet  hark  !  the  wildest  shriek  of  death  !  and  lo  ! 
The  priest  falls  gasping  from  the  ramparts  now — 
The  breath  of  oracles  upon  his  lips, 
The  Future's  knowledge  in  his  dying  heart. 
He  reels — pants — gazes  on  the  sulphur  light — 
(How  like  the  glare  of  hell  it  wraps  his  form !) 
Expiring,  mutters  woe — and  falls  to  sleep 
Shroudless  in  the  red  burial  of  the  doomed  ! 
— On  to  the  ocean  !  and,  far  o'er  its  waves, 
To  Rhsetia's  home  of  glaciers — if  GOD  wills! 
Look  not  behind  !  a  moment  gains  the  shore  !" 
So  Pansa  cried,  and  windlike  was  their  flight. 

The  pinnace  cleaves  the  waters;  heaving,  black 
And  desolate,  the  dismal  billows  groan 
And  swell  the  dirges  of  the  earth  and  sky. 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  the  barque 
Sweeps  on  in  darkness,  save  when  furnace  light 
Flares  o'er  the  upturned  floods;  and  now  they  pass 
The  promontory's  cliffs,  and  o'er  the  deeps 
Fly  like  a  midnight  vision. — From  the  shores 
Voices  in  terror  cry,  and  countless  shapes 
Now  in  the  lava  blaze  appear — and  now 
Vanish  in  the  fell  night,  and  far  away, 
Pliny's  lone  galleys,  dimly  from  their  prows 
Casting  their  watchlights  through  the  fitful  gloom, 
Hear  not  the  implorings  of  the  fugitives. 

THE  DEATH-CRIES  OF  POMPEII. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Hear  us !  oh,  hear  us  !  will  no  God  reply  ? 

No  ear  of  mercy  open  to  our  prayer  ? 
Hath  utter  vengeance  throned  the  accursed  sky  ? 

And  must  we  perish  in  this  wild  despair? 


CANTO    III.  155 

Hear  us  !  oh,  hear  us  !  will  no  mortal  hand 

Succour  in  horror — pity  in  our  dread? 
Woe  !  Desolation  sweeps  o'er  all  the  land  ! 

Woe!  woe  !  earth  trembles  'neath  the  Death-King's  tread  ! 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Oh,  Fear  and  Gloom  and  Madness  are  around, 

And  hope  from  earth  is  vain; 
The  sky  is  blackness — waves  of  fire,  the  ground — 
And  every  bosom's  breath — the  pulse  of  pain. 

Yet  let  us  not  deny, 

In  shuddering  nature's  agony, 
The  universal  and  immortal  King! 

But  rather,  while  we  gasp, 

Our  dying  children  closer  clasp, 
And  pass,  with  them,  the  deep  where  blossoms  deathless  spring ! 

THIRD  VOICE. 

Who  bids  us  sink  resigned  ? 
Who  bids  us  bless  the  Slayer? 

And  mid  the  storm  of  ruin,  blind, 

Scorched — blasted — dying — breathe  again   the  spurned-back 
prayer  ? 

Let  the  Creator  in  his  vengeance  take 
The  life  he  heaped  on  men  ! 

No  sigh — no  voice — no  tear  shall  slake 
The  almighty  hatred  that  could  thus  condemn  ! 

He  made  us  but  to  die — 
To  die  yet  see  our  city's  burial  first — 

And  he  shall  feast  upon  no  wailing  cry 
From  me : — take  what  thy  wrath  has  cursed  ! 

I  yet  have  power  to  hate  and  scorn  the  might 

That  strews  the  earth  with  dead  in  Desolation's  night ! 

FOURTH  VOICE. 

Blaspheme  not  in  thine  anguish  ! 

We  may  not  hope  to  linger — 
Yet,  quickly  quenched,  we  shall  not  moan  and  languish 

In  wan  disease — emaciating  pain — 


150  THE    LAST   NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

And  living  death — when  e'en  an  infant  finger 

Would  be  a  burden  ! — Oh,  the  fiery  rain 
Comes  down  and  withers  and  consumes 

The  mighty  and  the  weak, 
And  not  a  voice  from  out  yori  horrid  glooms, 

That  shroud  the  Sarnus  and  the  sea, 
Replies  to  hearts  that  break 

In  the  last  agony. 
Yet  shut  not  out  the  hope  elysian, 

And  fold  not  darkness  to  thy  breast  ! — 
—My  babe !  oh,  sweet,  most  blest  and  briefest  vision  ! 

As  at  thy  birthhour,  here  's  thy  home  of  rest — 
My  bosom  was  thy  pillow — 't  is  thy  tomb- 
It  gave  thee  life — and,  in  thine  early  death, 
Thy  latest  throbs  to  mine — 

— Oh,  like  harp  thrillings  in  thy  bliss  and  bloom, 
While  o'er  my  face  stole  soft  thy  odorous  breath, 

They  touched  my  spirit  with  a  joy  divine  ! — 
Thy  latest  throbs  shall  be 

The  warning  that  shall  waft 
My  soul  up  through  the  starr'd  infinity, 

E'en  where  the  nectar  cup  is  by  the  I    mortals  quaff 'd. 

FIFTH  VOICE. 

And  must  we  die? 
In  being's  brightness  and  the  bloom  of  thought! 

Sepulchred  beneath  a  sunless  sky ! 
And  all  the  spirit's  godlike  powers  be — nought ! 

Wail  o'er  thy  doom,  fair  boy  ! 
Shriek  thy  last  sorrow,  maiden  !  for  the  doom, 

That  o'er  earth's  tearless  joy 
Rolls  gory  mid  the  shadows  of  the  tomb! 

The  tomb  !  there  shall  be  none 
Save  dark-red  shroudings  of  the  lava  sea — 

The  fire  shall  quench  the  agonizing  groan — 
Moments  become — eternity  ! 

And  must  we  perish  so  ? 
Sink,  shuddering,  thus  and  gasp  our  breath  in  flame  ? 

And  o'er  our  unremembered  burial  flow 
The  pomps  and  pageants  of  a  worthless  name  ? 


CANTO  III.  157 

At  jvonted  feasts,  no  voices  shall  salute — 
In  temple  hymns,  no  soul-breathed  strain  awake 

Our  memories  from  the  realms  forever  mute — 
But  o'er  our  graves  barbarian  kings  shall  slake 

Their  demon  thirst  of  gore — 
And  redcross  slayers  march  in  bandit  ranks, 

From  Alp  and  sea  and  shore, 
To  heap  the  Asian  sands  with  hordes  of  slaughtered  Franks! 

Wail  for  the  joy  that  never  more  shall  breathe ! 
Wail  for  the  lore  and  love,  the  bloom  and  bliss 

That  to  the  ocean  world  of  fire  bequeathe 
Their  paradise  of  hope  !  and  this 

Must  be  our  only  trust — to  quickly  die — 
And  leave  the  pleasant  things  of  earth  behind  ; 

Through  thousand  ages  unremembered  lie 
Unknown  to  sunbeam  smile  or  breath  of  summer  wind  ! — 

DIOMEDE,  (rushing  in.) 
Away  !  bewailers  of  decrees  that  bring 

Rest  to  the  grief  and  restlessness  of  earth  ! 
Away  !  pale  tremblers  mid  the  dawn  of  spring 

That  o'er  the  winter  of  your  fate  comes  forth  ! 
What  are  your  woes  to  his, 

Who  from  the  throne  of  power  beheld  the  glory — 
Ambition's  grandeur,  pleasure's  bliss, — 

Gleam  on  the  Syrian  towers  like  gods  in  minstrel  story ! 
Gone  !  gone  !  why,  see  ye  not  the  eyes 

Of  hell's  own  Furies  glaring  through  the  flame? 
And  hear  ye  not  the  wild,  deep,  dreadful  cries 

That  call  in  curses  on  the  Avenger's  name? 
No  barque  to  bear  us  o'er  the  sea ! 

No  refuge  on  the  mountain's  breast ! 
Earth,  time,  and  hope  like  unblest  shadows  flee, 

And  death  and  darkness  pall  our  everlasting  rest ! 

•  '       *        "*  •      ,'      T  '»  / 

What  spectre  sail  sweeps  yon  ? 

Now  in  the  black  night  buried — now  upon 

The  billow  in  the  horrid  light  careering, 
Like  a  spirit  that  hath  passed 
The  glacier  and  the  Lybian  blast, 

Jt  feels  not  human  fearing ! 


158  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

It  flies  toward  the  promontory  now — 

The  torrent  fire  of  ruin  hangs  above — 
And  earthly  forms  are  standing  by  the  prow, 

Clasped  in  the  arms  of  love  i 
O  Hell  of  Thought !  and  must  I — in  the  fame 

Of  sumless  wealth  and  power — sink  down  and  die, 
And,  helpless,  hopeless,  leave  the  Praetor's  name 

To  moulder  with  the  herd's  beneath 

The  mountain  monument  of  death, 

And  be  a  doubt,  or  mock  and  scorn 

To  fierce  barbarians,  yet  unborn, 
When  in  the  spoiler's  lust,  they  seek  the  Italian  sky  ? 

Ay,  curse  the  gods  who  in  their  hate  created 

The  serpent  death  that  gnaws  your  core  of  life! 
E'en  in  your  childhood's  beauty,  ye  were  fated 
To  writhe,  howl,  shudder,  perish  in  the  strife 
Of  elemental  agonies, 

As  were  your  sires  by  ghastly  wan  disease ; 
And  wrath,  shame,  guilt,  despair,  remorse  and  pain, 

Their  heritage  and  testament,  have  swept 

Your  hearts  as  vultures  sweep  the  battle  plain  ! 

Then  by  the  tears  unpitied  grief  hath  wept, 

By  lone  bereavement's  wail, 
And  Evil's  dark  ovations, 
Bid  universal  ruin  hail ! 
And  swell  Death's  monarch  march  o'er  buried  nations  ! 

For  me — as  fits  the  Roman  lord, 

When  hopeless  peril  darkens  on  his  way, 
I  crave  no  lingering  tortures  with  the  horde 

Who  gasp  and  grovel  in  the  slave's  dismay, 
And  to  the  sick  and  sulphurous  air, 

Where  Gloom  and  Fire  and  Horror  dwell, 
Pour  out  to  fiction's  gods  the  unheard  prayer, 

And  seek  in  clouds  a  heaven,  to  find  on  earth  a  hell ! 
Thou  one  omnipotent  DESPAIR  ! 

Whose  shadow  awes  the  prostrate  world, 
Thou  kingly  Queller  of  lamenting  care  ! 
Oblivion's  voiceless  home  prepare, 

And  let  Extinction's  lightning  bolt  be  hurled ! 


CANTO  III.  159 

Banished,  yet  dauntless,  doomed  but  undismayed, 

Least  willing,  yet  without  a  groan  or  sigh, 
I  go — dark  Nemesis  !  thou  art  obeyed  ! 

Thou  awful  cliff!  the  billoxv's  funeral  cry 

Thrills  through  my  quickened  sense, 

That  feels  with  life  intense, 
Yet,  ere  a  moment's  lapse,  this  soul  shall  sleep — 
This  form,  a  sweltering  corse,  beneath  the  unsounded  deep  !" 

Thus  to  the  proud  heart's  last  throb  breathing  out 
Defiance  and  blaspheming  wrath — though  wrecked 
And  ruined,  hurling  his  terrific  thoughts 
Of  baffled  vengeance  to  the  shuddering  heavens — 
A  monumental  Memnon,  sending  up 
Death's  music  to  the  burning  hills  of  death — 
Upon  the  extremest  edge  of  awful  cliffs, 
That  beetled  o'er  the  blackened  billows  now 
Howling  their  dirges  o'er  the  expected  dead, 
The  haughty  Praetor  stood  alone,  and  flung 
His  agonizing  spirit's  deadliest  glance, 
The  farewell  execrating  look  of  pride, 
Unquenched  by  horror,  unsubdued  by  death, 
O'er  hill,  shore,  forest,  ocean — earth  and  heaven  ; 
Then,  towering  like  a  rebel  demigod, 
And  to  the  fierce  volcano  turning  quick 
His  brow  of  fearful  beauty,  while  his  lips 
Curved  with  convulsive  curses,  o'er  the  rocks — 
Down— down  the  void,  black  depths,  like  a  bann'd  star, 
Or  demon  from  a  meteor  mountain's  brow, 
He  plunged  and  o'er  him  curled  the  shivering  floods ! 

Meantime,  charred  corses  in  one  sepulchre 
Of  withering  ashes  lay,  and  voices  rose, 
Fewer  and  fainter,  and,  each  moment,  groans 
Were  hushed,  and  dead  babes  on  dead  bosoms  lay, 
And  lips  were  blasted  into  breathlessness 
Ere  the  death  kiss  was  given,  and  spirits  passed 
The  ebbless,  dark,  mysterious  waves,  where  dreams 
Hover  and  pulses  throb  and  many  a  brain 
Swims  wild  with  terrible  desires  to  know 


160  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

The  destinies  of  worlds  that  lie  beyond. 
The  thick  air  panted  as  in  nature's  death, 
And  every  breath  was  anguish  ;  every  face 
Was  terror's  image,  where  the  soul  looked  forth, 
As  looked,  sometimes,  far  on  the  edge  of  heaven, 
A  momentary  star  the  tempest  palled. 
From  ghastlier  lips  now  rose  a  wilder  voice, 
As  from  a  ruined  sanctuary's  gloom, 
Like  savage  winds  from  the  Chorasmian  waste 
Rushing,  with  sobs  and  suffocating  screams : 
And  thus  the  last  despair  found  utterance. 

SIXTH  VOICE. 

"  It  bursts  !  it  bursts  !  and  thousand  thunders  blent, 

From  the  deep  heart  of  agonizing  earth, 
Knell,  shatter,  crash  along  the  firmament, 
And  new  hells  peopled  startle  into  birth. 
Vesuvius  sunders!  pyramids  of  fire 

From  fathomless  abysses  blast  the  sky ; 
E'en  desolating  Ruin  doth  expire, 

And  mortal  Death  in  woe  immortal  die. 
Torrents,  like  lurid  gore, 
Hurled  from  the  gulf  of  horror,  pour, 
Like  legion  fiends  embattled  to  the  spoil, 
And  o'er  the  temple  domes, 
And  joy's  ten  thousand  homes, 
Beneath  the  whirlwind  hail  and  storm  of  ashes  boil. 

The  surges,  like  coil'd  serpents,  rise 

From  midnight  caverns  of  the  deep, 

And  writhe  around  the  rocks, 

That  shiver  in  the  earthquake  shocks" 

And  through  the  blackness  of  fear's  mysteries, 

Chained  Titans  from  their  beds  of  torture  leap, 

And  o'er  the  heavens,  Eumenides 
Seek  parting  souls  for  prey. 

Oh,  God !  that  on  those  dark  and  groaning  seas 
Would  soar  one  other  day ! 

Vain  is  the  mad  desire, 

Darkness,  convulsion,  fire, 


CANTO  III.  161 

Infernal  floods,  dissolving  mountains,  fold 

The  helpless  children  of  woe,  sin  and  Time — 

O'er  fiery  wrecks  has  Desolation  rolled, 
The  Infinite  Curse  attends  the  finite  crime ! 

No  melancholy  moon  to  gaze 

With  dim,  cold  light  remote  ! 
No  star,  through  stormy  sphere,  with  holy  rays, 

O'er  dying  eyes,  like  hope  of  heaven,  to  float ! 
No  spot — the  oasis  of  the  waste  above — 

Whose  still,  sweet  beauty  glistens 
Through  clouds  that  heave  and  riot  in  wild  masses, 

Breaks  on  the  breaking  heart !  no  seraph  listens 
In  blue  pavilions,  while  the  spirit  passes, 

And  o'er  the  dreariest  waters  bears, 
Beyond  the  unburied's  desert  shore, 

To  skies  ambrosial  and  elysian  airs, 
Where  e'en  the  awful  Destinies  adore ! 

No  tenderness  from  lips, 
Blackened  and  swoln  and  gasping,  steals 

Amid  the  soul's  eclipse : 
Each,  in  the  solitude  of  misery,  feels, 

Ineffable,  his  own  despair, 
And  sinks  unsolaced,  unsolacing,  down, 

O'ercanopied  by  sulphurous  air, 
Palled,  tombed  by  seas  that  terror's  last  cry  drown  ! 

Oh,  still  the  piteous  cry 

Mounts  up  the  heavens — "  fly  !  fly  !" 

"  Whither?"  the  billows  roar 

Among  the  wrecks  and  rent  crags  of  the  shore. 

"  Whither?"  the  Volcano's  voice 

Repeats,  biddihg  pale  death  rejoice. 

Oh,  Hope  with  madness  dwells, 
And  love  of  life  creates  the  worst  of  deaths ; 

Hark  !  world  to  world  ten  thousand  voices  swells — 

*  Resign  your  breaths  !' 
We  die;  the  sinner  with  the  sinless  dies, 

The  bud,  the  flower,  the  fruit,  corruption  wastes. 
Childhood  and  hoar  age  blend  their  agonies, 

Destruction  o'er  the  earth — the  missioned  slayer  hastes- 
21 


162  THE  LAST  NiGHT  OF  FOMPEK, 

Swiftly  along  (he  Paestan  gulf  before 
The  Alpine  gale,  scudded  the  Christians'  barque  j 
Night  veiled  Lucania's  rugged  shore,  but  oft 
The  dreadful  radiance  of  the  firemount  hung 
Upon  the  mightiest  Apennines,  and  there 
The  giant  cliffs,  hoar  forest  trees,  and  glens 
Haunted  by  endless  midnight,  and  the  foam 
Of  cataracts — glared  upon  the  fear-charmed  eye, 
Distinct  though  distant ;  and  Salernum's  crags 
Spurned  the  chafed  sea  that  rushed  before  the  prow. 
"  Lo  !  Pliny's  galleys  speed  to  aid  at  last !" 
Said  Pansa,  gazing  through  the  meteor  light, 
Towards  the  Sarnus  and  the  victim  host. 
"  All  shall  not  perish  ;  oars  and  sails  bear  on 
The  Roman  armament — and  now,  in  hope 
Renewed  exulting,  from  the  dust  upspring 
A  thousand  prostrate  shapes,  and  from  the  rocks 
Lift  their  scorched  hands,  and  shout  (though  we  hear  not) 
The  late  rescuers  on  !  yet  many  a  heart 
Will  throb  and  thrill  no  more,  but  buried  lie,. 
Like  its  own  birthplace,  till  oblivion  rests 
On  the  Campanian  cities  and  their  guilt. 
Salernum's  rocks  forever  from  our  gaze 
Hide  the  dark  scene  of  trial,  and  we  leave, 
With  swelling  canvas,  Rome's  imperial  realm, 
Where  Christian  faith  shall,  like  the  sandal  tree, 
Impart  its  odour  to  the  feller's  axe, 
To  seek  a  heritage  in  wilds  afar. 
— Now,  as  we  hasten,  let  our  spirits  soar 
To  Him  who  shelters  when  the  Avenger  slays  I" 

THE  FAREWELL  OF  THE  CHRISTIANS. 

PANSA. 

Alone,  in  darkness,  on  the  deep, 

Spirit  of  Love  !  redeemed  by  thee, 
While  fear  its  watch  o'er  ruin  keeps. 

Thy  grace  our  sign  and  shield,  we  flee. 
The  billows  burst  around  our  barque, 

The  death  streams  roll  and  burn  behind— 
Thy  mercy  guides  our  little  ark, 

Thy  breath  can  swell  or  hush  the  wind. 


CANTO    III.  1G3 


Thy  footsteps  ruffled  not  the  wave 

When  drowning  voices  shrieked  for  aid— 
The  cavern'd  billow  yawn'd — a  grave — 

"  Be  still*!"  it  heard  Thee  and  obeyed  ! 
From  idol  rites  and  tyrant  power, 

Now  o'er  the  midnight  sea  we  fly — 
Be  with  us  through  our  peril's  hour ! 

Saviour  !  with  Thee  we  cannot  die  ! 

MARIAMNE. 

To  men  a  mocked  and  homeless  stranger, 

Thy  truth,  love,  grace  and  goodness  blest 
The  world,  whose  first  gift  was  a  manger, 

Whose  last,  the  Cross  !  no  down  of  rest 
Pillowed,  O  Christ !  thy  holy  head, 

No  crown,  but  thorns,  Thy  temples  wreathed, 
Yet  Thou  the  Death  King  captive  led, 

And  through  the  tomb  a  glory  breathed  ! 
The  scorner  all  thy  love  reviled,' 

Thy  path  was  pain,  thy  kingdom  shame, 
Yet  sorrow  on  thine  aspect  smiled, 

E'en  Death  revered  Thy  deathless  name  ! 
The  bittern  moans  where  Zion  stood, 

The  serpent  crawls  where  nations  trod — 
Be  with  us  on  the  mountain  flood  ! 

Fill  our  dim  hearts  with  light  from  GOD  ! 

THE  MAIDEN  OF  POMPEII.' 

The  flame,  that  wrapt  my  childhood's  bowers, 

Revealed  Thee  to  my  darkened  mind ; 
Thee  whom  e'en  sybils,  seers  and  powers 

Of  Night  in  Delphi's  grove  divined  ; 
With  the  dim  glimpse  of  shadowed  thought, 

They  saw  the  Atoner's  form  of  light, 
Yet  pale  doubt  sighed  o'er  visions  wrought, 

The  idol  world  still  walked  in  night. 
Now  paynitn  dreams  of  dread  no  more, 

The  feigned  response,  the  magi's  charms, 
O'erawe  and  on  my  spirit  pour 

The  torturer's  spells,  the  tomb's  alarms. 


164  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  POMPEII. 

On  starless  wings,  through  blooming  air, 

Hope  unto  heaven  bears  human  love  ; 
Doubt,  grief,  lone  tears,  remorse,  despair 

Haunt  not  the  soul's  own  home  above. 
My  chill  heart  cheered  by  thoughts  like  these, 

Far  from  my  ruined  bowers  I  roam  ; 
Thy  love  lights  up  the  midnight   seas, 

Thy  smile  is  earth's  most  heavenly  home ! 

THE  OLD  CHRISTIAN.' 

Dimmer,  like  hoary  years  that  bring 

Life's  winter,  wanes  the  volcan's  glare; 
Destruction  furls  his  meteor  wing, 

Watching  the  desert  of  despair  ! 
Now  far  before,  the  ^Eolian  Isles 

Send  up  their  vassal  fires,  but  still, 
Where  fair  Trinacria's  Hybla  smiles, 

Darkness  sits  throned  on  ^Etna's  hill. 
Soon,  by  Sicilia's  whirlpool  streight, 

Our  barque  shall  seek  the  Ionian  sea, 
And  o'er  the  Adria,  pagan  hate 

To  Rhastian  hills  hunt  not  the  free  ! 
The  sun,  with  beams  that  bloom,  shall  soar, 
s    And  vineyard,  vale,  hillside  and  grove, 
Sea,  mountain,  meadow,  isle  and  shore 

Bask  in  voluptuous  light  of  love. 
Yet  darker  Ruin  still  must  come 

O'er  midnight  minds  and  hearts  defiled — 
A  direr  storm,  a  deadlier  doom — 

Where  Glory  stood,  and  Beauty  smiled. 
Away  !  the  grave's  wild  shadows  swim 

O'er  my  pale  eve  of  autumn  days; 
Away  !  the  wild  to  harp  and  hymn, 

Like  sphere-voiced  choirs,  shall  breathe,  O  Christ !  Thy 
and  praise ! 


'T  is  summer's  tenderest  twilight,  and  the  woods 
Glow  like  an  inner  glory  of  the  mind, 
And  rills,  veining  the  verdure,  and  among 


CAN'TO  III.  165 

Vines,  rose-lipp'd  flowers  and  odorous  shrubs  in  mirth 

And  music  dancing,  purl  from  fountains  known 

But  to  the  gnomes  and  kobalds  of  the  Alps — 

Mysterious  springs,  o'er  which  eternal  Night 

Watches  and  weeps  in  solitude,  her  tears 

Mingling,  at  last,  with  the  green  ocean  deeps. 

Brightness  and  beauty,  love  and  blessedness 

Breathe  on  each  other's  bosoms,  while  afar, 

From  jagged  cliffs  the  torrent  cataract 

Hymns  the  Omnipotent;  and  from  the  brows 

Of  desolate  peaks  ice-diademed,  which  thought 

Alone  may  climb,  the  mountain  avalanche, 

Vast  Ruin,  falls  and  with  it  ruin  bears. 

All  else  is  loneliness,  beauty  and  love, 

Peace  and  a  hallowed  stillness,  and  the  souls 

Of  the  lone  mountain  dwellers,  in  the  hush 

Of  solitude  and  nature's  majesty, 

Partake  the  sanctity  and  power  around. 

The  sunbow  o'er  precipitated  floods — 

The  ice-lakes,  and  ravines  where  chaos  dwells, 

And  desolation  ;  flowers  beneath  snow-hills, 

Where  the  great  sun  looks  wan — the  mightiest  pines, 

Rooted  in  chasms,  that  o'er  the  unfathomed  gorge 

Hang,  wave  and  murmur — vales  of  paradise, 

That  smile  upon  suspended  horror — all 

With  memories  and  oracles  and  dreams, 

Time's  hopes,  eternity's  imaginings, 

Infinity's  vast  grandeur,  the  meek  love 

Of  birthplace  home, — the  boundlessness  of  power, 

The  holiness  of  earth's  reliance — fill 

The  awed  and  yet  exultant  intellect ! 

Flowered  fields  and  harvests  bloom  around  the  door 
Of  a  lone  forest  cottage,  and  amidst 
The  Eden  of  the  wild  a  hoary  head 
Is  lifted  and  the  wan  lips  move  in  prayer. 
Around,  three  beings  kneel  in  thought  o'erawed, 
Vesper  responses  breathing  from  high  hearts, 
And  Echo  whispers  in  the  clefted  rocks. 


166  THE  LAST  MGHT  OF  POMPEH. 

From  meek  adorings  and  communing  love, 
Then  rose  they,  not  as  worshippers  arise 
In  latter  days  of  evil,  with  proud  eyes 
And  minds  revenge  corrodes,  but  violet-like, 
And  gentle  as  the  dawn  breath  of  sweet  May, 
Patient,  serene  and  robed  in  holy  thoughts. 

Dayspring  and  evelight,  thus,  year  after  year, 
Dawned  and  departed,  and  the  seasons  had 
Their  own  peculiar  joys  in  Pansa's  home. 
And  there — the  Roman  Convert's  testament — 
The  storm-nursed  heritors  of  Faith,  blasphemed, 
Throned  Liberty  on  Alpine  pinnacles, 
And  bade  her  temple  be  the  Switzer  hills. 
There  in  love  worshipped,  there  with  hoar  hairs  died 
The  Christians,  but  their  deathless  spirits  lived 
In  the  high  thoughts  of  many  a  patriot  heart, 
Which,  thrilled  with  Freedom  and  God's  holy  Law, 
With  tyrant  Wrong  warred  through  Guilt's  thousand  years. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


WHAT  awful  images  of  ancient  days, 

What  high  and  hallowed  thoughts  rush  o'er  my  brain, 

While  I  behold  and  tremble  and  adore 

Thy  melancholy  pomp  of  sculptured  Mind, 

Thou  Temple  of  the  deathless  !  Pantheon 

Of  Genius  deified! — Amid  thy  vaults, 

Thy  lone  religious  passages  and  aisles, 

Thy  pillar'd  arches  gray  and  antique  shrines, 

The  spirit  pants  for  breath  and  the  heart  holds 

Its  lifepulse  silent  for  the  undying  Dead 

Pour  forth  their  glories  here  and  all  the  air 

Breathes  of  their  immortality  !  We  gaze 

And  gaze,  and  turn  away,  o'erpowered  by  thoughts 

Vast  as  the  blended  intellects  that  float 

Through  the  far  cloisters  of  monastic  gloom, 

And  high  and  holy  as  the  eternal  thrones, 

Their  seats  of  Power  amid  Earth's  majesty  ! 

How  soars  and  shudders  the  astonished  soul 

Among  the  great  assembly  of  the  pride 

And  glory  of  the  earth  !  the  canonized 

Of  countless  generations  ! — Here  they  dwell 

Together — all  the  Majesty  of  Mind  ! 

Bards  of  high  mysteries  !  and  warriors  crowned 

With  gory  glories  !  and  wise  statesmen  skilled 

To  guide  the  golden  argosy  through  storms 

And  tempests  o'er  a  darkly  swirling  sea ; 

And  orators,  whose  words  of  wisdom  fell, 

(Like  the  Athenian's  eloquence  among 

The  gurgling  shores  of  rocky  Salamis,) 

Unheeded  till  too  late  !  and  here  they  sleep, 

The  mitred  prelates  of  the  land,  whose  ban 

Was  blight  and  blasting  in  the  olden  days, 


168  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

When  bondmen  spirits,  smitten  to  the  dust, 
Bowed  down  before  the  Dagon  of  their  Faith, 
Grasped  the  red  cross,  embraced  a  life  of  woe, 
Adored  a  dream,  and,  like  a  vision,  passed 
To  meet  the  doom  of  deeds  before  THE  JUST, 
Whom  priestcraft  never  knew,  or  scorned,  if  known. 
Beside  the  bold  crusader  sleeps  the  monk 
Whose  voice  was  like  a  trumpet,  when  he  raised 
The  nations,  and  to  the  desert  led  them  forth 
To  perish,  like  a  herd  on  naked  sands. 
Here  monarcbs  slumber — but  unlawful  hands 
Have  ceased  to  reverence  the  anointed  head, 
And  crowns  are"crushed  and  sceptres  broken  now, 
And  not  a  voice  cries  Traitor !  All  is  lost, 
The  pomp,  the  pageant  and  the  banner'd  pride, 
The  warrior's  glory  and  the  sovereign's  power, 
The  churchman's  bigot  pride,  the  lady's  charms ! 
St.  Edward's  crown  hath  mouldered  into  dust; 
The  ancient  chair  for  the  anointing  hour 
Rests  on  the  crumbled  clay  of  those  who,  erst, 
Sate  proudest  there — the  Dagons  of  their  day  ! 
—Oh !  nought  is  left  but  tombs  and  trophies  now, 
Dark  mausolea,  where  no  empress  weeps, 
Shrines  overthrown,  where  not  a  shadow  steals 
To  worship — cenotaphs  without  a  corse, 
And  monuments  without  memorial ! 

Oh !  as  I  wander  mid  the  holy  light 
Thrown  from  the  pictured  windows  high  aloft, 
While  every  footfall,  o'er  the  sculptured  stones 
Beneath,  wakes  ghostlike  echoes,  that  along 
The  ancient  walls  steal  with  a  low  faint  sound, 
Like  dim  revealings  of  another  world, 
Each  effigy  dilates  and  glows  with  life 
Around  me,  and  the  dusky  light  reveals 
Their  features  like  the  faces  we  behold 
In  troubled  visions,  or  the  shadows  seen 
Gliding  amid  the  gloamin,  when  the  sound 
Of  flowing  waters  riseth  on  the  soul 
Like  blessed  music. — Ere  they  fade  away, 
Thus  let  me  catch  their  wavering  lineaments: — 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  109 

Full  in  the  sunset  light  far  distant  thrown 
From  yon  stained  window — lo !  the  Hero  stands, 
Whose  voice  shook  empires  !  girt  in  iron  mail, 
With  shivered  shield  and  dinted  sword,  he  stands, 
And  through  the  bars  of  his  closed  visor  glare 
His  searching  eyes  like  stars  amid  the  storm. 
His  Anak  form  moves  on — his  armed  tread 
Tends  to  the  battle  or  the  tournament, 
The  foray  or  the  joust — and  hark  !  the  shout, 
The  bugleblast  of  onset !— All  is  still. 
Behold  again !  where  wars  the  giant  chief? 
— There — cold  and  motionless,  the  STATUE  stands. 

Yon  poet's  marble  brow  breathes  thought;  his  eyes, 
To  all  the  wonted  wildness  of  their  light, 
Wake  from  the  sleep  of  ages,  and  the  love, 
The  passion  of  his  spirit  wakes  again. 
Lo  !  now  he  grasps  his  long  neglected  lyre, 
And  inspiration  in  his  cold  heart  burns; 
Memory,  the  seraph,  from  her  pictured  wings 
Scatters  gay  visions  o'er  his  wasted  heart, 
And  Fancy,  beautiful  spirit !  o'er  him  bends 
With  looks  of  light,  and  Forms,  in  robes  of  pearl 
Arid  green  and  gold,  hover  around  his  harp, 
Redolent  of  joy  and  perfect  blessedness. 
— Alas!  the  golden  chords  melt  'neath  his  touch, 
And  the  dust  eddies  in  the  troubled  air — 
Dust !  nought  but  dust  all  that  we  love  in  life, 
Like  our  own  hearts,  a  dewdrop  and  a  dream ! 

From  his  cold  couch  in  yonder  cloister's  cell 
The  monk  starts  up,  as  he  were  loitering  late 
From  vesper  hymn  and  hurries  to  his  shrine 
In  the  dark  ruin  of  the  chapelry. 
Amazed,  he  stands  ;  and,  with  a  dreamy  eye, 
Like  a  delirious  sleeper,  gazes  round; 
The  illumined  missal  and  tall  crucifix, 
The  waxlights  and  the  censers,  all  have  gone ! 
The  altar-fire  hath  ceased  !  the  worshippers 
No  more  approach  for  earthly  sacrifice  ; 
22 


170  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

The  glorious  beauty  and  high  sanctitude 

Of  that  fair  church  he  served,  e'en  while  he  slept, 

Hath  passed  away,  like  a  bright  evening  cloud  ! 


The  Orator's  pale  lips,  in  quivering  play, 
Reveal  the  awful  eloquence,  that  once 
Shook  thrones  and  sundered  monarchies,  but  none 
Heed  now  the  voice,  whose  living  magic  held 
The  breathless  heart  submissive  to  its  charm. 
The  strong  delirious  passions  slumber  on  ; 
Hope  dwells  not  here ;  Ambition  hath  forgot 
His  earth-o'ershadowing  purposes ;  the  spell 
Of  Praise,  the  fever  of  eternal  Fame 
Thrills  not  the  silent  soul — and  hoary  guilt 
Hath  passed  the  ordeal  of  its  earthly  doom. 
How  deadly  still  the  Sepulchre  of  Pride  ! 
The  distant  verger's  faintest  step  o'ercomes 
The  spirit  like  the  whisper  of  the  Dead  ! 
'T  is  a  sage  homily — that  slow  light  fall ! 
Of  living  foot  in  this  cold  world  of  Death. 


Why  burns  thine  eye  with  such  triumphant  light, 
O  proud  Elizabeth  ?  Lo  !  there  the  shrine 
Where  worship  now  the  people  of  the  earth, 
Scotia's  lost  Mary — beauty's  loveliest  queen — 
A  sacrifice,  if  innocent,  and  thrice 
A  sacrifice  if  guilt  confirmed  her  doom. 
Leman  of  Essex  !  Tyrant  Henry's  child, 
Meet  daughter  of  thy  sire  !  bend  that  proud  head 
And  look  beneath  thy  foot,  O  haughty  Bess ! 
Thy  broken  sceptre  lies  by  Mary's  tomb ! 
Grandeur  !  thou  hadst  thy  crc'wn.     Misfortune  now 
Hath  her  reward — the  tears  of  half  the  world. 

The  features  fade  to  duskier  lineaments, 
The  spell  hath  passed — and  all  becomes  again 
A  monumental  mockery — but  oh  ! 
'T  is  a  dread  thing  for  living  man  to  hold 
Communion  with  this  empire  of  the  dead  ; 
To  think,  to  feel,  to  breathe  a  vivid  life. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEV.  171 

And  know  that  every  atom  of  the  dust, 
That  mingles  with  the  air,  had  thought  and  power, 
And  pillowed  the  same  hopes  on  the  same  fears, 
And  toiled  and  struggled  in  the  waves  of  woe, 
Like  the  worn  heart,  that,  old  in  early  youth, 
Poureth  this  dirge  above  the  unanswering  dead  ! 
I  hear  the  rush  of  countless  wings ;  and  now, 
In  solemn  train  and  proud  array,  they  pass, 
The  Great,  the  Wise,  the  Mighty  and  the  Good, 
Through  the  lone  cloisters,  and  around  the  vaults 
Spread  the  elysian  vision  of  their  pomp. 
O'er  hearts  that  quail  and  quiver,  here  they  reign  ; 
Throned  on  the  majesty  of  ages  here, 
Triumphant  Genius,  from  the  thick  pale  dust 
Invoking  deities,  eternal  reigns, 
While  the  bright  suns,  that  lightened  lower  worlds, 
Forever  burn  amid  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

The  old  Cathedral  clock  tolls  out  the  hour. 
How  solemnly  each  lone  deep  echo  rolls 
Through  the  cold  World  of  Tombs  !  yet  none  awakes, 
Ye  effigies  of  glory  and  renown  !  ye  shades 
Of  Mind  !  ye  pictured  palaces  of  Thought ! 
Hear  ye  that  lingering  knell? — 'Tis  not  for  you! 
Listen,  all  ye  who  wander  here !  each  note 
Of  that  old  prophet  is  the  voice  of  death 
Sounding — Ye  are  the  dust  ye  tread  upon! 
For  him,  who,  far  from  country,  friends  and  home, 
With  a  quick  heart  and  a  wrought  spirit,  roams, 
O  Ancient  Abbey !  through  thy  pillar'd  vaults, 
When  the  mad  fever  of  this  life  is  o'er, 
Far  happier  were  the  dying  thought  (as  sweet 
As  breath  of  moonlight  roses  bathed  in  dew) 
That  he  should  lay  his  weary  head  to  rest 
On  earth's  green  bosom,  'neath  the  smile  of  heaven, 
Where  sunlight  and  the  beams  of  summer  stars, 
And  the  soft  glory  of  the  autumnal  moon 
And  vernal  showers  and  diamond  dews  would  come., 
And  youths  and  maidens  meet  in  joy  and  love, 
Beneath  the  trailing  willow  and  beside 


172  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

The  shorn  turf  of  his  nameless  sepulchre, 
Low  in  the  violet  vale,  where  mountains  spread 
The  shadows  of  the  eve — than  that  his  corse 
Should  moulder  in  thy  melancholy  vaults, 
Thou  Sepulchre  of  Grandeur  !  where  the  sounds 
Of  multitudes  commercing  through  the  ways 
Of  Earth's  one  CITY-WORLD  re-echo  harsh 
Along  thy  mouldering  shrines  and  cloisters  dim. 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.* 


BEAUTIFUL  city  of  the  dead  !  thou  stand'st 
Ever  amid  the  bloom  of  sunny  skies 
And  blush  of  odours,  and  the  stars  of  heaven 
Look,  with  a  mild  and  holy  eloquence,  * 
Upon  thee,  realm  of  silence  !     Diamond  dew 
And  vernal  rain  and  sunlight  and  sweet  airs 
Forever  visit  thee ;  and  morn  and  eve 
Dawn  first  and  linger  longest  on  thy  tombs 
Crown'd  with  their  wreaths  of  love  and  rendering  back 
From  their  wrought  columns  all  the  glorious  beams, 
That  herald  morn  or  bathe  in  trembling  light 
The  calm  and  holy  brow  of  shadowy  eve. 
Empire  of  pallid  shades !  though  thou  art  near 
The  noisy  traffic  and  thronged  intercourse 
Of  man,  yet  stillness  sleeps,  with  drooping  eyes 
And  meditative  brow,  forever  round 
Thy  bright  and  sunny  borders ;  and  the  trees, 
That  shadow  thy  fair  monuments,  are  green 
Like  hope  that  watches  o'er  the  dead,  or  love 
That  crowns  their  memories ;  and  lonely  birds 
Lift  up  their  simple  songs  amid  the  boughs, 
And  with  a  gentle  voice,  wail  o'er  the  lost, 
The  gifted  and  the  beautiful,  as  they 
Were  parted  spirits  hovering  o'er  dead  forms 
Till  judgment  summons  earth  to  its  account. 

Here  't  is  a  bliss  to  wander  when  the  clouds 
Paint  the  pale  azure,  scattering  o'er  the  scene 
Sunlight  and  shadow,  mingled  yet  distinct, 
And  the  broad  olive  leaves,  like  human  sighs, 
Answer  the  whispering  zephyr,  and  soft  buds 

*  The  Cemetery  of  Paris. 


174  PERE  LA  CHAISE. 

Unfold  their  hearts  to  the  sweet  west  wind's  kiss, 

And  Nature  dwells  in  solitude,  like  all 

Who  sleep  in  silence  here,  their  names  and  deeds 

Living  in  sorrow's  verdant  memory. 

Let  me  forsake  the  cold  and  crushing  world 

And  hold  communion  with  the  dead!  then  thought, 

The  silent  angel  language  heaven  doth  hear, 

Pervades  the  universe  of  things  and  gives 

To  earth  the  deathless  hues  of  happier  climes. 

All,  who  repose  undreaming  here,  were  laid 
In  their  last  rest  with  many  prayers  and  tears, 
The  humblest  as  the  proudest  was  bewailed, 
Though  few  were  near  to  give  the  burial  pomp.   . 
Lone  watchings  have  been  here,  and  sighs  have  risen 
Oft  o'er  the  grave  of  love,  and  many  hearts 
Gone  forth  to  meet  the  world's  smile  desolate. 

The  saint,  with  scrip  and  staff,  and  scallop  shell 
And  crucifix,  hath  closed  his  wanderings  here  ; 
The  subtle  schoolman,  weighing  thistle  down 
In  the  great  balance  of  the  universe, 
Sleeps  in  the  oblivion  which  his  folios  earned; 
The  sage,  to  whom  the  earth,  the  sea  and  sky 
Revealed  their  sacred  secrets,  in  the  dust, 
Unknown  unto  himself,  lies  cold  and  still ; 
The  dark  eyes  and  the  rosy  lips  of  love, 
That  basked  in  passion's  blaze  till  madness  came, 
Have  mouldered  in  the  darkness  of  the  ground  ; 
The  lover,  and  the  soldier,  and  the  bard — 
The  brightness,  and  the  beauty,  and  the  pride 
Have  vanished — and  the  grave's  great  heart  is  still ! 

Alas,  that  sculptured  pyramid  outlives 
The  name  it  should  perpetuate !  alas  ! 
That  obelisk  and  temple  should  but  mock 
With  effigies  the  form  that  breathes  no  more. 
The  cypress,  the  acacia,  and  the  yew 
Mourn  with  a  deep  low  sigh  o'er  buried  power 
And  mouldered  loveliness  and  soaring  mind, 
Yet  whisper  "  Faith  surmounts  the  storm  of  death." 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.  175 

Beautiful  city  of  the  dead  !  to  sleep 
Amid  thy  shadowed  solitudes,  thy  flowers, 
Thy  greenness  and  thy  beauty,  where  the  voice, 
Alone  heard,  whispers  love — and  greenwood  choirs 
Sing  'mid  the  stirring  leaves — were  very  bliss 
Unto  the  weary  heart  and  wasted  mind, 
Broken  in  the  world's  warfare,  yet  still  doomed 
To  bear  a  brow  undaunted  !  Oh,  it  were 
A  tranquil  and  a  holy  dwelling-place 
To  those  who  deeply  love  but  love  in  vain, 
To  disappointed  hopes  and  baffled  aims 
And  persecuted  youth.     How  sweet  the  sleep 
Of  such  as  dream  not — wake  not — feel  not  here, 
Beneath  the  starlight  skies  and  flowery  earth, 
'Mid  the  green  solitudes  of  Pere  La  Chaise  ! 


AN  EVENING  SONG  OF  PIEDMONT. 


Ave  Maria !  't  is  life's  holiest  hour, 
The  starlight  wedding  of  the  earth  and  heaven, 
When  music  breathes  its  perfume  from  the  flower, 
And  high  revealings  to  the  heart  are  given ; 
Soft  o'er  the  meadows  steals  the  dewy  air, 
Like  dreams  of  bliss,  the  deep  blue  ether  glows, 
And  the  stream  murmurs  round  its  islets  fair 
The  tender  nightsong  of  a  charmed  repose. 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  love, 
The  kiss  of  rapture  and  the  linked  embrace, 
The  hallowed  converse  in  the  dim  still  grove, 
The  elysium  of  a  heart-revealing  face, 
When  all  is  beautiful — for  we  are  blest, 
When  all  is  lovely — for  we  are  beloved, 
When  all  is  silent — for  our  passions  rest, 
When  all  is  faithful — for  our  hopes  are  proved. 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer, 
Of  hushed  communion  with  ourselves  and  heaven, 
When  our  waked  hearts  their  inmost  thoughts  declare, 
High,  pure,  far  searching,  like  the  light  of  even  ; 
When  hope  becomes  fruition  and  we  feel 
The  holy  earnest  of  eternal  peace, 
That  bids  our  pride  before  the  Omniscient  kneel, 
That  bids  our  wild  and  warring  passions  cease. 

Ave  Maria  !  soft  the  vesper  hymn 
Floats  through  the  cloisters  of  yon  holy  pile, 
And  'mid  the  stillness  of  the  nightwatch  dim 
Attendant  spirits  seem  to  hear  and  smile! 
Hark  !  hath  it  ceased  ?  The  vestal  seeks  her  cell, 


AN  EVENING  SONG  OF  PIEDMONT,  177 

And  reads  her  heart— a  melancholy  tale  ! 
A  song  of  happier  years,  whose  echoes  swell 
O'er  her  lost  love  mid  pale  bereavement's  wail. 

Ave  Maria  !  let  our  prayers  ascend 
For  them  whose  holy  offices  afford 
No  joy  in  heaven — on  earth  without  a  friend — 
That  true  though  faded  image  of  the  Lord  ! 
For  them  in  vain  the  face  of  nature  glows, 
For  them  in  vain  the  sun  in  glory  burns, 
The  harrowed  heart  consumes  in  fiery  woes, 
And  meets  despair  and  death  where'er  it  turns. 

Ave  Maria  !  in  the  deep  pine  wood, 
On  the  clear  stream  and  o'er  the  azure  sky 
Bland  twilight  smiles,  and  starry  solitude 
Breathes  hope  in  every  breeze  that  wanders  by. 
Ave  Maria  !  may  our  last  hour  come 
As  bright,  as  pure,  as  gentle,  heaven !  as  this  ! 
Let  faith  attend  us  smiling  to  the  tomb, 
And  life  and  death  are  both  the  heirs  of  bliss  ! 


THE    COURTEZAN. 


THE  brand  of  shame  is  on  thy  brow, 
The  fire  of  death  is  in  thy  heart, 
And  infamy  hath  made  thee  now 
From  human  things  a  thing  apart : 
An  outcast  from  all  social  ties, 
Proud  conscious  virtue's  mock  and  scorn, 
Victim  of  guilt  that  never  dies — 
Oh,  better  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born. 

The  cold  smile,  that  distorts  thy  cheek, 
Only  reveals  thy  darker  ruin, 
The  guilt-seared  heart  that  will  not  break, 
The  damned  despair  of  thy  undoing : 
Like  meteor  lights  in  midnight  gloom, 
Deepening  the  darkness  vainly  hid 
Within  a  foul  but  painted  tomb — 
A  proud  but  mouldering  pyramid. 

The  purple  robes  that  round  thee  wave, 
Mocking  the  form  they  veil,  reveal 
The  riot  of  a  living  grave, 
The  heart  that  loathes  what  it  must  feel ; 
Remorse  that  feeds  on  deep  disgrace, 
Despair  that  spurns  atonement's  power, 
Hell  pictured  in  a  laughing  face, — 
All — all  the  work  of  one  dread  hour  ! 

Thou  wanderest  in  the  world's  highway 
With  a  bold  brow,  and  lip  profane, 
Yet  dim  views  of  a  brighter  day 
Light  up  thy  bosom's  realm  of  pain ; 


THE  COURTEZAN.  179 

The  painted  pallor  of  thy  cheek, 
The  wasting  of  thy  wanton  form, 
Tell  agony  no  words  can  speak, 
The  gnawing  of  the  poison  worm. 

Barred  from  the  hope  that  points  our  way 
To  happier  realms  and  purer  skies, 
Thou  ever  lingerest  o'er  the  day 
That  sealed  thy  hopeless  agonies, 
And  as  the  thought  of  what  thou  art 
Comes  o'er  the  memory  of  thy  fame, 
It  leaves  a  hell  within  thy  heart, 
And  infamy  upon  thy  name. 

Thy  wanton  eye — poor  child  of  woe  ! 
Seems  lighted  at  the  daemon's  shrine;      * 
It  lures  to  doom — to  madness — oh  ! 
To  doom  and  madness  such  as  thine ! 
Thou  art  a  woman — banned  and  lost 
To  all  the  hopes  of  woman's  fame ! 
Alas  !  not  hell  itself  can  boast 
A  fiend  like  woman  doomed  to  shame. 

They  mock  and  scorn — I  pity  thee, 

Poor  victim  of  confiding  faith ! 

Affection's  martyr — yet  not  free 

To  meet  the  martyr's  blessed  death ! 

When  in  deep  anguish  thou  dost  think 

Of  her  that  bore,  that  blessed,  that  nursed  thee, 

Oh,  can  we  marvel  thou  shouldst  drink 

Oblivion  of  the  hour  that  cursed  thee  1 

When  driven  forth  from  heart  and  home 
By  thine  unfeeling  father's  curse, 
What  but  despair  could  seal  thy  doom? 
Could  want  atone  or  make  thee  worse? 
— Frail  woman  !  in  thy  best  estate 
Too  prone  to  err — to  doubt  too  true, 
On  whom  shall  rest  thy  penal  fate 
When  in  the  awful  judgement  due  ? 


180  THE  COURTEZAN. 

Oh  !  'tis  a  fearful  thing, to  view 
The  dark  blight  of  Love's  virgin  bloom — 
The  pale  brow  wet  with  death's  cold  dew — 
The  warm  heart  shrouded  in  the  tomb  ! 
Not  thy  guilt  only  cast  thee  forth 
A  houseless  stranger  in  the  world — 
But  the  Fiend's  minions — men  of  Earth 
Thee  from  thy  throne  of  honour  hurl'd ! 

They  cast  thee  out — a  Magdalen, 
Without  a  hope,  without  a  home, 
A  scorn  and  blot  till  death,  and  then 
A  daemon  in  the  world  to  come  ! 
• — Veiled  hypocrites  !  beware  the  hour 
When  ye  shall  bear  the  doom  ye  brand, 
The  heart,  a  lyre  of  godlike  power, 
Is  judged  but  by  a  godlike  hand. 

Thy  face  is  gay — thy  form  is  fair, 
Thy  voice  sounds  light  and  cheerful  now, 
But  I  read  shuddering  horror  there, 
And  loathing  branded  on  thy  brow. 
— Go,  go  thy  ways !  nought  can  redeem 
With  men  the  heart  that  errs  like  thine ; 
Lost  to  earth's  heaven — thine  own  esteem, 
— Poor  victim  to  the  daemon's  shrine  ! 

f 

Yet,  e'en  for  thee,  in  all  thy  shame, 

There's  cheering  hope  still  left  in  heaven, 

And  in  THE  ATONEMENT'S  holy  name 

Thy  years  of  sin  may  be  forgiven ! 

E'en  when  thy  heart  is  breaking — when 

Thy  hunger  loathes  the  bread  of  lust, 

Though  scofied,  and  scorned,  and  cursed  by  men, 

Kneel  to  thy  God!  repent  and  trust! 


THE  LOZEL. 


WITH  a  cold  brow  unblanched  by  shame,. 

A  silent  triumph  of  the  eye, 

A  heart  that  spurns  all  honest  fame, 

And  glories  in  its  infamy, 

Thou  hurriest  to  the  work  of  death, 

The  deeds  that  damn  the  soul  the  deepest, 

And,  coiling  torture's  serpent  wreath, 

Unstarting  from  thy  visions,  sleepest. 

Thy  demon  arts — thy  smile  that  wears 
The  mask  of  love  but  to  betray, 
Thy  crocodile,  thy  tyrant  tears, 
That  gem  thy  victim's  burning  way, 
Thy  guarded  glance,  thy  watchful  care, 
Thy  passion  shrinking  at  a  word, — 
All  verge  to  one  dark  close — despair, 
And  ruin — destined  though  deferred. 

And  thou  canst  sit  by  beauty's  side, 
And  gaze  on  heaven's  best  image  there, 
And  glut  the  rancour  of  thy  pride 
In  thoughts  that  have  no  hope  in  prayer  ; 
While  she —  her  fair  face  lightened  up 
By  Love  that  blooms  like  Eden's  isle, 
Drinks  madness  from  thy  poison  cup, 
And  greets  thee  with  a  seraph  smile. 

Yes,  thou  canst  blanch  the  virgin  brow, 
And  dim  the  eye  whose  glance  is  bliss, 
And  steal  what  worlds  cannot  bestow — 
Ay — steal  with  an  Iscariot  kiss  ! 


182  THE  LOZEL. 

And  o'er  thy  blasted  spirit  breathe 
No  thoughts  that  would  the  wretch  revive — 
No  pulse  thrills  through  thy  heart  of  death, 
Whose  throb  would  bid  the  ruined  live ! 

But,  like  the  samiel  o'er  the  waste, 
Thou  leav'st  a  desert  heart  behind, 
While  scorn  smiles  darkly  o'er  the  Past — 
The  haunted  ruins  of  the  Mind  ! 
And  men  will  hear  thee  tell  of  deeds, 
Whose  lightest  meed  is  years  of  pain— 
A  blighted  heart  that  breaks  and  bleeds, 
That  ne'er  can  hope  on  earth  again. 

Amid  the  maddened  revel's  mirth, 
When  ribald  tongues  and  maudlin  eyes 
Teach  apes  to  scorn  the  sons  of  earth 
Lost  to  their  birthright  in  the  skies, 
Thy  guilt  becomes  a  deed  of  pride, 
Thy  victim's  woe,  a  theme  of  jest, 
And  thou  canst  woman's  love  deride, 
Who  art  in  woman's  ruin  blest. 

Dishonoured  and  forsaken  now 
By  all  she  loved  in  years  gone  by, 
Gloom  in  her  heart,  guilt  on  her  brow, 
And  darkness  in  her  leaden  eye, 
She  can  but  tread  the  appointed  way 
That  all  must  tread  on  whom  the  world 
Lays  its  forbidding  curse  foraye — 
From  love,  hope,  heaven  and  glory  hurled. 

Deserted  by  the  righteous  throng, 
Whose  hearts  are  not  so  wholly  changed 
That  they  would  shun  the  winning  wrong, 
If,  unknown,  from  the  fold  they  range, 
Oh  !  what  is  left  the  victim  maid, 
Mocked  by  the  vile,  shunned  by  the  good, 
But  sin  continued — death  delayed — 
Blurr'd  shame  and  awful  solitude  ? 


THE  LOZEL.  183 


Ere  life  became  a  bliss  to  her, 
Ere  fragrance  followed  on  the  flower, 
The  spoiler  came — the  branded  slur — 
The  deathless  doom  of  frailty's  dower! 
And  thus,  DARK  LOZEL  !  thou  canst  blight 
The  beautiful — and  stain  the  fair — 
And  on  her  bosom  pour  the  night 
Of  desolation  and  despair. 

By  all  the  sorrows  of  thy  lot, 
By  all  thy  wrongs  in  ruin  borne, 
By  all  heaven  hath  and  earth  has  not, 
By  all  thy  utter  woe  and  scorn, 
The  TRAITOR  yet  shall  feel  the  force 
Of  all  that  long  hath  tortured  thee, 
The  conscious  horror  of  remorse, 
The  jEtna  of  life's  agony  ! 

Yes,  he  shall  feel  and  thou  shalt  know, 

In  realms  where  guilt  shall  find  no  gloom, 

The  peril  of  inflicted  woe, 

The  anguish  of  the  LIAR'S  doom  ! 

— Thou  hearst  a  voice  none  else  may  hear, 

It  bids  thy  burning  spirit  pause  ; 

It  bids  thee,  INFIDEL  !  appear 

Where  angels  plead  the  Victim's  cause  ! 


LINES   COMPOSED   WHILE   ASCENDING  THE 
MISSISSIPPI. 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  native  hills, 
The  rockgirt  woods  that  wave  in  heaven, 
The  music  of  a  myriad  rills, 
That  purl  beneath  the  light  of  even ! 
Oh,  give  me  back  the  winter  wind, 
That  o'er  the  northern  mountain  howls  ! 
The  burning  clime  I  leave  behind, — 
The  sensual  feast,  the  mantling  bowls. 

Let  all  who,  born  for  better  things, 
Would  chain  the  heart  to  Mammon's  car, 
Fly  on  the  north  wind's  fleetest  wings, 
And  hail  the  tropic's  loveliest  star  ! 
To  me  more  lovely  is  the  home, 
Where  kindred  hearts  at  evening  meet, 
While  shrieking  blasts,  like  demons,  roam, 
And  minds,  long  tried,  each  other  greet. 

I  would  not  mount  the  vassal's  throne 
To  find  a  felon's  damned  grave ; 
I  would  not  do  to  be  undone, 
Nor,  born  MIND'S  monarch,  be  a  slave  ! 
Corruption  lurks  in  all  the  bowers 
Of  that  soft,  sunny,  sensual  clime, 
Where  SIN'S  dark  pinions  gloom  the  hours, 
And,  giantlike,  stalks  forth  dark  CRIME. 

Let  not  the  Spirit,  God  decreed 

Should  range  at  will  through  earth  and  heaven, 

Descend  to  be,  in  thought  or  deed, 

The  creature  of  Time's  festering  leaven  ! 


LINES  COMPOSED  WHILE  ASCENDING  THE  MISSISSIPPI.  185 

Let  not  the  light  that  God  breathed  in, 
From  his  own  soul,  the  unborn  child, 
Be  dimmed  by  doubt  or  gloomed  by  sin, 
Or  perish  on  earth's  dreariest  wild. 

Oft  we  become  the  things  we  hate, 

Led  on  by  those  who  ne'er  relent, 

And  thus  we  raise  a  tomb  to  Fate, 

And  build  o'er  hope  a  monument. 

Evil  becomes  the  guest  of  all 

Whom  conscience  guards  not  through  the  ills, 

That  darken  round  us  from  the  Fall, 

Like  cataracts  formed  by  mountain  rills. 

Plague  breathes  through  all  the  gleaming  air, 
That  floats  o'er  Heaven  as  if  it  thought; 
In  gilded  cups  lurks  man's  despair, 
And  all  that  woe  hath  ever  wrought. 
If,  in  this  world,  we  would  be  wise, 
Shun  we  the  guilt  that  is  unblest, 
For  in  the  far,  far  unknown  skies, 
There  is  for  sin  no  realm  of  rest. 

Then  give  me  back  my  native  hills, 
Though  rude  the  men  and  rough  the  soil, 
And  scant  the  harvest  that  ne'er  fills 
The  granary, — won  by  ha  rdest  toil ; 
If  no  high,  proud,  and  generous  spirit 
Flashes  like  light  from  northern  hearts, 
They  from  their  sires  a  God  inherit, 
And  God's  own  VOICE  that  ne'er  departs. 


24 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 

WHEN,  wrapt  in  dreams  that  throng  the  twilight  hour, 
I  roam  alone  o'er  Nature's  fair  domain, 
Mid  the  hushed  shadows  of  the  wildwood  bower, 
Or  o'er  the  shellstrewn  margin  of  the  main, 

Or  upland  green,  or  lovely  lawn, 

Where  dewdrops  kiss  the  breathing  flowers, 

And  summer  smiles,  at  rosy  dawn, 

Like  Memory  o'er  unsinning  hours, 
I  think  that  soon — how  soon !  the  Night  will  come 
When  I  shall  leave  this  bright  world  for  the  tomb. 

I  think — and  frailty  dims  the  drooping  eye — 
That  Spring  will  perfume  all  the  inspiring  air, 
And  Summer's  smile  illume  earth,  sea,  and  sky, 
And  Autumn,  heaven's  own  robe  of  glory  wear ; 
That  silvery  voices,  low  and  sweet, 
Will  breathe  the  heart's  own  music  forth, 
And  plighted  youth  'trothed  maidens  meet, 
Where  now  I  roam  o'er  darkening  earth ; 
But  when  all  seasons  with  their  treasures  teem, 
Where  shall  I  wander?  victim  of  a  dream  ! 

Through  thousand  years  the  glorious  sun  shall  rise, 
And  myriad  songbirds  thrilling  anthems  sing  : 
Soft  shall  the  moonbeams  fall  from  midnight  skies, 
And  groves  breathe  music  o'er  the  gushing  spring ; 
But  where  will  be  the  lonely  one 
Who  swept  his  lyre  in  wayward  mood, 
And  dreamed,  sung,  wept  o'er  charms  unwon, 
In  holy  Nature's  solitude  1 
In  what  far  realm  of  shoreless  space  shall  roam 
The  soul  that  e'en  on  earth  made  Heaven  its  home  ? 

The  paths  I  wear,  the  stranger's  foot  will  tread. 
The  trees  I  plant,  will  yield  no  fruit  to  me : 


THE  HOUR  OP  DEATH.  187 

The  flowers  I  cherish,  bloom  not  for  the  dead ; 
The  name  I  nourish — what  is  that  to  thee, 

Fame !  phantom  of  the  wildered  brain  ? 

Love's  tears  should  hallow  life's  last  hour, 

For  pomp,  and  praise,  and  crowns,  are  vain — 

Death  is  the  spirit's  only  dower  ! 
Alone,  the  hermit  of  a  broken  heart, 
My  Mind  hath  dwelt — even  so  let  it  depart ! 

To  think — alas  !  to  feel  and  know  that  we, 
Sons  of  the  sun,  the  heirs  of  thought  and  light, 
Must  perish  sooner  than  the  windtossed  tree 
Onr  hands  have  planted,  and  unending  night 
Close  o'er  our  buried  memories  ! 

•          "..'.-,.  •   .  '    ,-..-'        "        '  r  .•"•'• 

Our  sphere  of  starry  thought — our  sun 

Of  glory  quenched  in  morning  skies, 

Our  sceptre  broken — empire  gone — 
The  voice,  that  bade  creation  spring  to  birth, 
Too  weak  to  awe  the  worm  from  human  earth  ! 

,. 

I  know  not  where  this  heart  will  sigh  its  last, 
I  cannot  tell  what  shaft  will  lay  me  low, 
Nor,  when  the  mortal  agony  hath  passed, 
Whither  my  spirit  through  the  heavens  will  go. 

It  will  not  sleep,  it  cannot  die, 

It  is  too  proud  to  grovel  here, 

For  even  now  it  mounts  the  sky, 

And  leaves  behind  earth's  hope  and  fear ! 

0  may  it  dwell,  when  cleansed  from  sin  and  blight, 
Shrined  in  God's  temple  of  eternal  light ! 

Where'er  the  spirit  roams,  howe'er  it  lives, 

1  cannot  doubt  it  sometimes  looks  below, 
And  from  the  scenes  of  mortal  love  derives 
Much  to  enhance  its  rapture  or  its  woe  ; 

And  when  I  muse  on  death  and  gloom, 

And  all  that  saints  or  sages  tell, 

I  pause  not  at  the  midnight  tomb, 

Nor  listen  to  the  funeral  knell, 
But  think  how  dear  the  scenes  I  loved  will  be 
When  I  gaze  on  them  from  eternity  ! 


TO  MY  SON  IN  HEAVEN. 


ERE  the  cloud  was  on  thy  spirit, 
Or  the  blight  upon  thy  bosom, 
Thou  wert  summoned  to  inherit 
The  realms  of  bliss  and  blossom. 
With  a  bounding  soul  and  limb, 
Thou  didst  tread  Earth^undefiled — 
Now  thy  song  is  with  the  cherubim, 
My  blessM  and  gifted  child  ! 

Jn-  bereavement's  lonely  hours, 
In  the  morn  and  evening  prayer, 
In  the  summer's  twilight  bowers, 
And  the  autumn's  sweetest  air ; 
By  the  bed,  the  board,  the  hearth. 
And  in  every  scene  I  sigh — 
Yet  could  I  bring  thee  back  to  earth? 
My  angel  son  on  high  1 

In  my  heart  and  brain  are  bitter  throes, 

And  my  eyes  are  dim  with  tears, 

While  1  think  that,  mid  my  thousand  woes, 

I  joyed  in  thy  infant  years  : 

And  the  hopes,  the  pride,  the  love, 

That  I  shrined  in  thee,  my  son  ! 

But  thy  spirit  is  above 

With  the  High  and  Holy  One ! 

Thou  canst  never  feel,  like  me, 
The  stings  of  man  and  time, 
Nor  turn  from  woe  and  sin  to  flee 
But  to  meet  despair  and  crime  ! 


TO  MY  SON  IN   HEAVEN.  189 

From  the  fount  of  Thought  Divine, 
Thou  didst  rise,  a  seraph,  here — 
And  I  bless  my  God  that  ought  of  mine 
Can  know  no  grief  or  fear. 

Thou  hast  gone  to  wing  the  glorious  spheres 

Mid  the  train  of  cherub  choirs, 

And  thy  voice  shall  swell,  through  deathless  years, 

To  the  hymns  of  archangel  lyres: 

But  I,  as  my  weary  steps  wend  on, 

And  my  lonely  heart  deplores, 

Shall  never — never  hear,  my  son  ! 

Its  tones  from  the  distant  shores. 

The  lingering  seasons  will  pass  away, 

And  the  years  of  my  mourning  fly, 

Yet  never  will  break  again  the  day 

That  wakes  the  light  of  thy  glistening  eye ! 

With  a  heart  convulsed  and  a  brain  distraught, 

And  a  quivering  hand,  I  pressed 

The  death-weights  on  those  orbs  of  thought, 

And  bore  thee  to  thy  rest. 

Oh,  the  last  words  on  thy  dying  lips, 

Ere  thy  voice  in  spasms  died, 

And  thy  thoughts  ran  wild  in  thy  brain's  eclipse, 

As  I  left  thy  death-bed's  side  ! 

"  Oh,  my  dear  father  !  where  I  am 

I  would  you  were  !" — but,  alas  !  my  child  ! 

Thou  standest  in  glory  before  The  Lamb — 

I  here  by  the  dust  defiled  ! 

While  the  struggling  soul  yet  stayed 

Within  thy  darkened  brain  ; 

While  the  faintest  hope  in  shadows  played, 

As  thou  lingeredst  in  thy  pain  ; 

In  the  midnight  gloom  and  the  midday  light, 

I  watched  thee,  oh,  my  son  ! 

And  slept  not  till  the  world  was  night 

Round  thee,  my  blessed  one ! 


190  TO  MY  SON  IN  HEAVEN. 

Then  by  thy  breathless — cold,  cold  breast 

I  laid  my  head  to  sleep, 

And  I  found  with  the  dead  the  only  rest 

That  o'er  my  heart  could  creep! 

Oh,  countless  times,  that  head  had  hung 

In  slumber  on  my  bosom — now 

My  arms  around  my  lost  one  clung, 

And  death  was  on  his  brow  ! 

Mid  sorrows  and  foes,  and  chilling  throngs, 
Though  't  was  my  doom  to  roam, 
My  spirit  was  glad  to  hear  thy  songs 
Hail  thy  wronged  father  home  ; 
My  pride,  my  joy,  and  the  loveliest  flower 
That  here  shed  the  odour  of  heaven — 
The  pall  of  death  is  on  the  hour 
When  thy  love  to  my  grief  was  given. 

Thou  wilt  come  no  more,  with  thy  soul-lit  eye, 

Bright  brow  and  pleasant  voice — 

With  thy  smile  like  the  starlight  of  autumn's  sky, 

And  thy  step  that  said  '  rejoice  ;' 

Dayspring  and  sunset — the  springtime  bloom, 

And  the  winter's  household  hearth — 

Hues,  odours  and  smiles  are  in  thy  tomb, 

And  why  should  I  roam  the  earth  ? 

Oh,  one  is  left,  on  whose  natal  hour 

Thy  spirit  smiled  in  bliss, 

And  there's  another  in  the  nuptial  bower 

That  never  felt  thy  kiss ; 

The  first  in  her  soul  thine  image  bears, 

And  Gertrude's  face  is  thine, 

And  both,  through  the  lapse  of  earthly  years, 

Shall  make  thy  tomb  their  shrine. 

And  she,  who  bore  thee,  her  firstborn  pride, 
In  the  bloom  of  her  spring  of  love, 
And  she  who  clasped  thee  to  her  side, 
And  calted  thee  herwreck'd  ark's  dove, 


SONNET. 


By  twilight  and  daybeam  will  kneel  in  prayer 
By  the  grave  of  my  only  son, 
And  the  breeze  that  fans  his  dust,  shall  bear 
Our  love  to  his  heavenly  throne  ! 


SONNET. 

YE  eyes  of  Heaven !  what  forms  behind  you  wear 
Such  radiant  glories  as  ye  shed  on  earth  ? 
Where  is  the  Eden  of  their  heavenly  birth, 
Oh,  where  the  dwellings  of  those  shapes  of  air  ? 
Perchance,  loved  ones  who  felt  like  us  despair, 
And  all  the  sickening  ills  of  this  world's  dearth, 
Franchised  from  clay,  may  now  come  hurrying  forth, 
To  waft  above  each  heart-revealing  prayer, 
To  listen  to  each  sorrow  of  our  lot, 
And  tell  earth's  children,  with  a  voice  of  light, 
They  dwell  forever  in  their  holy  sight, 
And  never  can  in  glory  be  forgot ! 
Love,  the  pure  fountain  of  all  mind,  imparts 
Its  bliss  and  beauty  to  the  heaven  of  hearts. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  GENEVIEVE. 


Star  of  my  being's  early  night ! 

Tender  but  most  triumphant  flower  ! 
Frail  form  of  dust  and  heavenly  light ! 

Rainbow  of  storms  that  round  me  lour  ! 
Of  tested  love  the  pledge  renewed, 

The  milder  luminary  given 
To  guide  me  through  earth's  solitude, 

To  Love's  own  home  of  bliss  in  heaven. 

Heiress  of  Fate!  thy  soft  blue  eye 

Throws  o'er  the  earth  its  brightness  now, 
As  sunlight  gushes  from  the  sky 

In  glory  o'er  the  far  hill's  brow; 
And  light  from  thine  ethereal  home 

On  every  sinless  moment  lingers, 
As  hope,  o'er  happier  days  to  come, 

Thrills  the  heart's  harp  with  viewless  fingers. 

For,  from  the  fount  of  Godhead,  thou, 

A  ray  midst  myriads  wandering  down, 
Still  wear'st  upon  that  stainless  brow 

The  seraph's  pure  and  glorious  crown  ; 
Still — from  thy  Maker's  bosom  taken 

To  bear  thy  trial  time  below, 
Like  sunlight  flowers,  by  winds  unshaken, 

The  dews  of  heaven  around  thee  glow. 

Hours  o'er  thy  placid  spirit  pass 

Like  forest  streams  that  glide  and  sing, 
As  through  the  fresh  and  fragrant  grass 
Breathes  the  immortal  soul  of  spring ; 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  OKNEVIEVE.  193 

And  through  the  realms  of  thy  blest  dreams, 

Thy  high  mysterious  thoughts  of  Time, 
Heaven's  watchers  roam  by  Eden  streams, 

And  hail  thee,  Love  !  in  hymns  sublime. 

But  these  bright  days  will  vanish,  Love  ! 

And  thou  wilt  learn  to  weep  o'er  truth, 
And  with  a  saddened  spirit  prove 

That  bliss  abides  alone  with  youth. 
Cares  may  corrode  that  lovely  cheek, 

And  fears  convulse  that  gentle  heart, 
And  agonies,  thou  dar'st  not  speak, 

Deepen  as  childhood's  hours  depart. 

And  thou,  fair  child  !  as  years  descend 

In  darkness  on  thy  desert  track, 
May'st  tread  thy  path  without  a  friend, 

Gaze  on  through  tears,  through  shadows  back, 
And  sigh  unheard  by  all  who  stood 

Around  thee  on  a  happier  day, 
And  struggle  with  the  torrent  flood, 

That  sweeps  thy  last  pale  hope  away. 

i     . 
O'er  the  soft  light  of  that  blue  eye 

Clouds  of  wild  gloom  may  quickly  gather, 
As,  ere  the  sunburst  of  his  sky, 

The  tempest  fell  around  thy  father ; 
And  mid  the  cold  world's  wealth  and  pride, 

The  chill  of  crowds,  life's  restless  stir, 
Thou  mayst  unknown  with  grief  abide, 

Lone  as  the  sea  of  Anadir. 

And  thou  wilt  grow  in  beauty,  love  ! 

While  I  am  mouldering  in  the  gloom, 
And  like  the  summer  rill  and  grove, 

Sigh  a  brief  sorrow  o'er  my  tomb  ; 
And  thou  wilt  tread  the  same  wild  path 

Of  mirth  and  madness  all  have  trod 
Since  time  gave  birth  to  sin  and  wrath — 

Till  from  the  dust  thou  soar  to  GOD  ! 
25 

^ 


194  TO  MY 

Doubt  may  assail  thy  sool,  and 

_"- ;. ".    -" :  :  r. ' ;  i  : .:  r :~. . :~.  ^  :    i .  ~ . 
And  round  thy  darkened  spirit  close 

When  I  no  more  can  watc h  and  guard 


N . " .   •••/."".  '. "  r  5  *. : .  ~  j ".  .   ; :  5 :    :     "  .  "  i  r : 
Eanh's  erii  from  thy  spotless  breast. 

Fed  by  the  dost  that  gave  thee  breath, 

'•'•     i  r        .  "f  r."    '•    i . r  j  v.  i.  ~ '•  ~  ~  ". 

Tne  bosom,  firom  whose  fount  thy  tips 


May 

And  fame  thee  to  thy  frieodless  woe. 


E*eninthedawnofTime,  thy  heart 
TT  i  ih  ifc  In  in  •  na«ni  i  M  sai 
For  thoti  hast  SHB  tiesori  Jbpnt 

•XM^haTeciothed  thy  path  with  light; 
r,  my  beaotifid— my  West ! 

on  earth's  desert  wDt  thoe  find 
A  gfirtr    •  friend— a  home  of  rest 

For  the  bnised  heart  and  troobled  niind  ! 


fear,  and  ted* 
gtoom,  the  pangs  that  gnaw, 
Aad  o'er  a  wreck' d  heart  wear  the  pride, 
That  by  its  gloom  doth  goto  o'erawe. 

Yet  dread  not  then,  my  Generiere! 

7-  r    .     ?      i      1    vv  ;.    -,      _--^_    -  ---,— 

^    ------:.:    :    -....     .     -.;._••  :;;--•  ---_  — 

Tfcc  in  •lifcai  •gjh1  the  facmag  tear ! 


TO  MY  DAUGHETR  GENEV1EVE.  195 


Mind  builds  its  empire  on  the  waste, 

And  virtue  triumphs  in  despair — 
The  guiltless  woe  of  being  past 

Is  future  glory's  deathless  heir. 

Beware  the  soil  of  thoughts  profane, 

The  fluent  speech  of  skill'd  design, 
Passion  that  ends  in  nameless  pain, 

And  fiction  drawn  from  fashion's  mine ! 
He,  who  so  wildly  shadows  out 

The  darkest  passions  of  our  sin, 
Draws  the  dark  bane,  he  strews  about, 

From  the  deep  fount  of  guilt  within. 

THE  ANOINTED  keep  thee,  sinless  child  ! 

Be  on  thy  path  the  PARACLETE  ! 
Through  dreary  wold  and  desert  wild 

THE  GIVER  guide  thy  little  feet ! 
Like  buds  that  bloom  as  blown  flowers  fall, 

New  hopes  wave  o'er  thee  angel  pinions, 
Till  thou  with  them  who  loved  thee — all — 

Blend  round  the  smile  of  God  in  glory's  high  dominions. 


SONGS  TO   CLARA. 


PART  I. 

The  robe,  that,  like  the  shroud,  when  ence  put  on, 
Leaves  the  wild  heart  no  more  to  hope  or  fear. 

Croly. 

WHEN  from  the  southern  land  I  came, 
Pale  as  the  lips  I  kissed  in  death, 
A  stranger  to  the  voice  of  fame, 
The  spell  of  praise,  the  laurel  wreath, 
With  my  heart's  sorrows  on  my  brow, 
And  desolation  in  my  soul, 
While  backward  lay  a  waste  of  woe, 
And  fear  before,  to  read  the  scroll 
The  spirit  of  my  doom  unfolded 
With  calm  despair,  that  recks  not  how 
The  features  of  our  fate  are  moulded, 
So  he  fulfil  his  awful  vow  ;-— 
I  dreamed  not  then,  thou  gentle  one ! 
That  ever  earthly  shape  again 
Could  charm  a  heart  so  long  undone, 
And  picture  on  the  brow  of  pain 
The  bright,  though  shadowy  form  of  bliss, 
That  changeful  as  the  rainbow's  hues, 
Or  April  green,  hath  come  to  this 
Outbreathing  of  the  heart's  cold  dews ; 
The  overflow  of  feelings  wrought 
Up  to  the  madness  of  delight — 
The  torrent  of  long  gathered  thought, 
The  meteor  of  fate's  darkest  night. 

But  when  we  met,  thy  nameless  grace, 
Thine  eye,  that  floated  in  its  light, 
The  heart's  high  heaven  in  thy  sweet  face, 
Thy  voice,  that  came  like  sounds  by  night, 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  197 

O'er  the  blue  waters  faintly  gleaming, 
When  earth  is  green,  and  soft,  and  still, 
And  heaven  above  serenely  dreaming, 
Each  angel  on  his  own  star-hill — 
All  that  clung  round  thee  at  that  hour, 
(Alas !  they  cling  around  thee  yet !) 
When  all  the  thoughts  of  years  have  power, 
And  we  can  ne'er  in  life  forget — 
Far  backward  as  I  trace  the  scene, 
They  rise  before  my  heart  and  eye, 
To  tell  how  blest  I  might  have  been — 

Now,  9t  were  a  blessed  boon  to  die. 

i 

Why  was  I  born  to  be  the  bane 
Of  all  I  love  as  genius  loves  ? 
Ah  !  't  is  enough,  my  own  heart's  pain, 
That  seeks  the  lonesome  hilly  groves, 
And  finds  a  solace  and  a  joy, 
Revealments  of  a  happier  lot, 
While  musing,  'neath  the  deep  blue  sky, 
On  all  that  have  been,  but  are  not. 
But,  't  is  my  evil  fate  to  link 
Spirits  with  mine,  for  woe  alone, 
And  bid  the  holy-hearted  drink 
The  bann'd  cup  of  enjoyment  gone  ; 
As  the  dark  nightshade  from  the  sun 
Drinks  light  to  feed  its  poison  leaves, 
So  my  heart  looks  on  all  that 's  done, 
With  that  strange  passion  which  bereaves 
The  hearts  of  others  of  their  mirth — 
To  them,  however  vain,  a  wreath 
Of  joy — their  sole  reward  on  earth — 
Though  unto  me  the  masque  of  death. 
And  thus  it  hath  been  from  the  time 
My  foot  hath  trod  this  desert  land, 
Though  not  a  tinge  of  all  earth's  crimes 
Hath  soiled  my  heart,  or  stained  my  hand. 
I  know  not  why  it  thus  should  be  ; 
My  heart  loves  peace  and  gentle  things, 
And  oft,  in  days  when  life  was  free, 
I  prayed  some  spirit  would  give  me  wings, 


^ 

198  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 

That  I  might  look  on  every  land, 

And  love  each  thing  I  looked  upon. 

My  soul  was  pure,  my  feelings  bland — 

Alas  for  me  !  that  time  hath  gone. 

Y  et — even  yet — I  bear  not  hate 

To  ought  that  breathes  the  breath  of  heaven ; 

But  there  's  with  me  an  evil  fate, 

To  which  my  spirit  hath  been  given, 

And  't  is  unmeet  that  I  should  love, 

Since  all  I  love  death  garners  up ; 

No  !  be  it  mine  alone  to  prove 

The  dregs  of  fate's  unhallowed  cup. 

My  father  died  ere  I  could  tell 
The  love  my  young  heart  felt  for  him : 
My  sister  like  a  blossom  fell  ; 
Her  cheek  grew  cold,  her  blue  eyes  dim, 
Just  as  the  hallowed  hours  came  by, 
When  she  was  dearest  unto  me ; 
And  vale  and  stream  and  hill  and  sky 
Were  beautiful  as  Araby. 
And,  one  by  one,  the  friends  of  youth 
Departed  to  the  land  of  dreams  ; 
And  soon  I  felt  that  friends,  in  sooth, 
Were  few  as  flowers  by  mountain  streams  ; 
And  solitude  came  o'er  me  then, 
And  early  I  was  taught  to  treasure 
Lone  thoughts  in  glimmering  wood  and  glen, — 
Now  they  are  mine  in  utmost  measure. 
But  boyhood's  sorrows,  though  they  leave 
Their  shadows  on  the  spirit's  dial, 
Cannot  by  their  deep  spell  bereave — 
They  herald  but  a  darker  trial : 
And  such  't  is  mine  e'en  now  to  bear 
In  the  sweet  radiance  of  thine  eye, 
And  't  is  the  wildness  of  despair 
To  paint  vain  love,  that  cannot  die. 
Yet  thus  it  must  be — like  the  flower, 
That  sheds  amid  the  dusky  night 
The  rays  it  drank  at  midday  hour, 
My  spirit  pours  abroad  its  light, 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  199 

When  all  the  beauty  and  the  bloom, 

The  blessedness  of  love  have  gone, 

And  left  the  darkness  of  the  tomb 

Upon  the  glory  of  its  throne. 

The  hour  hath  come — it  cannot  part — 

Deterring  pride — one  hurried  deed 

Hath  fixed  its  seal  upon  my  heart, 

And  ever  it  must  throb  and  bleed, 

Till  life,  and  love,  and  anguish  o'er, 

The  spirit  soars  to  its  first  birth, 

And  meets  on  heaven's  own  peaceful  shore 

The  heart  it  loved  too  well  on  earth.  - 

Clara !  I  never  named  to  thee 
The  thoughts  that  thronged  my  bosom  erst, 
Though,  with  a  wild  idolatry, 
I  loved  thee,  lost  one  !  from  the  first ; 
And  now  it  were  a  deadly  wrong 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  honest  fame, 
Save  in  a  sad  and  dirgelike  song, 
To  speak  in  love  thy  cherished  name  ; 
But  here — as  from  my  bosom  flow 
Tears  of  despair  o'er  what  is  gone, 
Thou  canst  but  listen  to  such  woe, 
As  be  not  thine,  beloved  one  ! 
For  thou  canst  feel  the  burning  power 
Of  passion  baffled  in  its  range, 
And  know  that  hearts,  in  one  brief  hour, 
Meet — blend  beyond  all  hope  of  change. 
Adieu !  be  thine  the  seraph's  task, 
To  hush  the  murrnurings  of  despair, 
But  Clara!  never,  never  ask, 
What  are  the  sorrows  that  I  bear. 
It  were  unholy  now  to  tell — 
It  were  a  blight — a  blasting  curse — 
To  thee  a  mockery — me  a  hell — 
Content  thee — earth  could  bring  nought  worse: 
Lips  sealed,  when  the  full  heart  is  breaking — 
Eyes  never  closed  on  heaven  denied — 
The  lingering  pause — the  last  forsaking — 
These  are  thy  triumphs — sceptred  Pride ! 


200  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 


PART  II. 

Woe  to  the  heart  where  passion  pours  its  tide  ! 
Soon  sinks  the  flood  to  leave  the  desert  there. 

Croly. 

% 

THE  sobbings  of  the  midnight  sea, 

The  moan  of  winds  through  vaults  of  death, 
The  wail  that  warns  events  to  be, 

The  awful  voice  that  has  no  breath — 
Such  sounds  come  o'er  the  quailing  bosom 

When  other  years  recur,  and  bring 
The  incense  of  each  faded  blossom 

That  wreathed  the  glowing  brow  of  spring  ; 
Such  sounds  come  o'er  us  when  we  turn 

To  sunnier  spots  and  happier  hours, 
And  brightly  buried  feelings  burn 

Amid  young  Love's  deserted  bowers. 

Between  the  hearts,  whose  feelings  rise, 

Like  incense  from  an  angel's  shrine, 
Before  the  throne  of  paradise, 

Meet  offering  to  the  Power  Divine, 
There  lies  a  gulf  of  boundless  gloom, 

Which  none  may  pass  till  Fate  decrees, 
Till  death  unlocks  the  hollow  tomb, 

Revealing  awful  mysteries  ! 
Doomed  at  their  birth,  in  other  spheres, 

To  sigh  o'er  pictures  of  the  mind, 
Through  all  the  woes  of  lingering  years, 

That  leave  a  burning  waste  behind, 
Our  tortured  hearts  too  quickly  feel, 

Too  deeply  for  this  mortal  lot, 
Too  lastingly  for  human  weal — 

All  unforgetting — unforgot ! 

Time  speedeth  on  with  hurried  pace, 
And  love  and  joy  are  left  behind — 

But  where  will  close  the  doubtful  race 
Ne'er  cometh  into  human  mind. 


SONGS    TO    CLARA. 

We  all  must  die — 't  is  all  we  know; 

We  all  must  go — we  know  not  where  ; 
Perchance,  to  skies  that  ever  glow, 

Perchance,  to  realms  of  quick  despair  ! 
It  may  be  so — it  may  be  not — 

Doubt  circles  all  and  all  must  die, 
Loved,  hated,  scorned,  avenged,  forgot — 

Oh  !  what  art  thou,  Eternity  1 

Our  lot  is  low— our  pride  is  high — 

We  are  not  what  our  minds  create ; 
The  elements  of  earth  and  sky 

Are  mingled  in  our  web  of  fate. 
Like  sunbows  thrown  o'er  torrents,  come 

Wild  thoughts  o'er  hearts  that  bleed  to  death 
Thoughts  whose  wild  light  illumes  the  tomb, 

When  the  blue  sky  resumes  our  breath. 
Oh  !  while  our  burning  spirits  soar, 

Woe  binds  us  to  our  weary  clay, 
Till  all  things  fade,  and  pain  is  o'er, 

And  forth  we  pass — away — away  ! 

How  thou  hast  felt  through  seasons  gone, 

My  own  despairing  heart  would  tell, 
In  the  low,  deep,  unearthly  moan, 

That  oft  hath  bade  thee,  Love,  farewell ! 
But  I,  perchance,  may  throw  the  hues 

Of  my  own  feelings  over  thee, 
Like  shadows  cast  o'er  moonlight  dews, 

Or  dark  clouds  o'er  the  gleaming  sea  ; 
And  yet  for  all  my  heart  hath  known 

Of  anguish  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Thou  mayst  be  blest  as  flowers  just  blown 

Beneath  the  spring's  transparent  sky ; 
And  few  the  thoughts  and  faint  the  prayers 

That  yet  have  followed  me  along 
A  path  beset  with  many  cares — 

The  heritage  of  sons  of  song1- 

26 


202  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 

I  will  not  wrong  thee,  gentle  one ! 

Thy  heart  hath  heard  the  voice  of  woe, 
And  I  should  rue  unkindness  done 

To  part  aggrieved,  and  leave  thee  so  ; 
For  thou  hast  rendered  unto  me 

Such  solace  in  my  wildest  mood, 
That  thou  art  now  my  destiny — 

The  charm  of  my  lone  solitude ! 
Thine  eye  is  bright  as  flowers  that  blow 

Upon  the  holy  Hydrasil, 
And  beauty  beams  upon  thy  brow 

Like  Odin's  throne  on  Asgard  Hill ; 
And  life  and  love  around  thee  bloom 

Like  Heimdaller's  gorgeous  bow, 
That  guides  the  wanderer,  through  the  tomb, 

To  realms  beyond  all  earthly  woe. 

But  worse  than  vain  my  love  for  thee, 
Beautiful  Spirit,  fancy-free ! 

And  I  must  quench  the  light  that  threw 
Its  radiance  o'er  my  morning  skies, 

And  dwell  no  longer  in  the  view 
Of  my  forbidden  paradise ; 

For  what  thou  wert  thou  art  not  now, 
And  I  am  changed  in  heart  and  mind, — 

And — thus  I  break  my  plighted  vow — 
And  pass  away  like  autumn's  wind. 


PART  III. 

Woes  of  weak  hearts  that  never  should  be  won, 
Wrongs  of  deluders  by  themselves  undone. 

Croly. 

'WOULD  the  green  curtain  of  the  grave 
Were  drawn  around  my  last  cold  rest, 

As  softly  as  yon  shadows  wave 

Around  the  far  blue  mountain's  breast ; 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  203 

For  length  of  life  is  length  of  woe, 

And  human  love  at  best  deceit ; 
All  we  have  known — we  still  shall  know, 

All  we  have  met — we  still  must  meet : 
And  weary  grows  our  desert  way 

While  every  light,  save  Hope's,  hath  fled, 
And  that  is  dim  as  winter's  day 

With  vainly  watching  o'er  the  dead  ! 
Here  we  must  mingle  with  the  Jow, 

And  half  forget  our  spirits'  power, 
And  feel  our  burning  bosoms  grow 

Cold  as  their  own  with  every  hour ; 
And  we  must  watch  and  weep  and  pray 

To  shun  the  death  that  would  be  kind, 
And  for  the  need  of  one  poor  day 

Wreck  all  the  glories  of  the  mind  ! 
None  think  as  we  have  ever  thought, 

Chained  vassals  to  their  daily  bread  ; 
None  know  the  feelings  that  have  wrought 

Such  triumph  o'er  the  heart  and  head  ! 
They  hear  a  voice — they  see  a  form, 

'Tis  all  they  think — and  all  they  care — 
They  cannot  catch  the  feelings  warm, 

The  pride,  the  glory,  the  despair, 
That  pass,  like  evening  lights,  o'er  all 

The  moments  of  a  spirit's  life, 
Wrapping  the  heart  within  a  pall 

Whose  dark  folds  tremble  in  the  strife ! 
Dark — dark  hath  been,  through  many  a  scene, 

My  wayward  lot  of  varied  woe, 
And  settled  gloom  doth  lour  between 

Hope  and  ought  better  here  below ; 
For  friends  forsake  and  foes  wax  strong, 

And  e'en  the  rabble  bow  to  me — 
Hatred,  disgrace,  oppression,  wrong, 

Have  sealed  my  utter  destiny. 
I  feel  not  now  as  once  I  felt — 

The  thrilling  throb,  the  unbending  brow, 
The  unfaltering  knee  that  never  bent, 

The  heart,  the  soul,  have  left  me  now ; 


204  SOXGS  TO  CLARA. 

And  I  am  doomed  to  wear  away 

The  gifts  once  honoured  by  thy  praise, 

And  far — how  far  ! — from  bliss  astray, 
To  end  unknown  my  cheerless  days. 

Well,  be  it  so ! — I  would  not  be 

One  of  the  herd  I  loathe  and  scorn, 
For  all  the  wealth  of  land  and  sea, 

Though  't  were  as  glorious  as  the  morn. 
I  would  not  deign  to  dwell  in  guile, 

To  damn  my  neighbour  with  a  lie, 
To  sack  and  plunder  with  a  smile, 

And  follow  pious  infamy, 
Though  Eos  were  a  world  of  gems, 

And  I  were  monarch  of  the  whole — 
Though  forest  leaves  were  diadems, 

And  I  God's  image  with  a  soul ! — 
I  have  an  eye,  a  spirit  still 

For  Nature  in  her  sweetest  moods ; 
The  silvery  stream,  the  sunny  hill, 

The  majesty  of  solitudes  ; 
The  music  of  the  waterfall, 

The  vesper  hymn  at  daylight's  close, 
The  ragged  rocks  that  tower  o'er  all, 

While  the  grass  springs,  the  blue  sky  glows. 
Mid  these  fair  scenes  I  half  forget 

The  wrongs,  the  woes,  that  I  have  borne, 
And,  though  my  brightest  star  hath  set, 

Stretched  on  the  cliff,  I  cease  to  mourn. 
There  Js  sweetness  in  the  flowering  grove, 

There  *s  beauty  in  the  waveless  river, 
And,  while  I  gaze  abroad,  I  love, 

Adore,  and  bless  the  mighty  Giver, 
And  feel  my  spirit  borne  away 

Beyond  the  things  of  common  note, 
Forgetful  of  my  dust  and  clay, 

On  which  the  herd  of  mortals  dote. 
In  the  old  days  of  wisdom,  when 

A  child  was  born,  the  father  wept : 
He  knew  his  soul  would  turn  again 

Back  to  the  fount  where  it  had  slept, 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  205 

When  years  had  ta'en  away  his  strength, 

And  cares  had  clouded  his  bright  brow, 
And  he  had  found  that  all,  at  length, 

Verged  into  woe — an  endless  Now  \ 
So  they  wailed  o'er  the  birth  of  one 

Whose  death-hour  would  bring  joy  to  all 
Who  loved  him  ere  his  race  begun, 

But  loved  him  more  beneath  the  pall ! 

Clara  !  my  strain  is  closing  now  ! 

'T  is  the  last  sweep  of  breaking  chords — 
'T  is  the  last  pulse — the  last  dark  flow 

Of  the  wild  heart's  mysterious  words  ! 
I  've  seen  thee  when  thy  heart  was  gay, 

When  sadness  flitted  o'er  thy  face, 
In  merry  crowds  by  night  and  day, 

And  kneeling  in  the  holy  place  ; 
And  I  have  loved  as  few  can  love, 

Without  a  hope,  without  a  fear, 
As  the  heart  gushes  forth  above, 

With  the  quick  pulse  and  starting  tear  ; 
And  now — (my  spirit  quails  to  think 

I  ne'er  shall  speak  thy  name  again  I) 
I  stand  upon  the  utmost  brink 

That  bounds  the  path  of  human  pain. 
The  chain  is  forged — the  doom  is  sealed — 

The  knell  hath  tolled — the  hour  is  come ! 
A  guiding  light  hath  been  revealed 

Through  the  dark  mazes  of  earth's  gloom  ; 
And  I  will  follow  on  my  way, 

Like  one  whose  task  is  finished  here — 
The  unknown  being  of  a  day, 

Whose  highest  rapture  was  a  tear. 
Clara  !  farewell !  the  time  hath  been 

When  I  could  sigh  that  lovely  name, 
But  that  hath  passed — and  every  scene 

That  led  me  on  to  love  and  fame. 
The  woes  I  bear  ?t  were  vain  to  tell — 
Hear  all  in — Love  !  farewell !  farewell ! 


206  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 


PART  IV. 

Oh !  wilt  thou  come  at  evening  hour  to  shed 
The  tears  of  Memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed  1 

Campbell. 

THESE  were  the  last — last  words  from  thee 

When  midnight  on  life's  sunshine  fell, 

And  love's  immortal  deity 

Wailed  on  the  breeze  a  wild  farewell  ; 

And,  as  I  trace  them,  still  I  hear 

The  elysian  music  of  thy  voice, 

And  see  the  scene  where  hope  and  fear 

Bade  mingled  hearts  despair — rejoice — 

Exult — despond — on  sunbeams  fly, 

Or  sink  in  sorrow's  darken'd  sea — 

Prone  on  the  earth — throned  in  the  sky — 

Victims  and  slaves  of  destiny  ! 

Where  art  thou  now? — where  art  thou  now? 
Not  where  the  broken  heart  should  rest, 
Not  where  it  scorns  despair's  wild  vow, 
Bosomed  on  heaven's  unchanging  breast, 
Beyond  the  woes  and  wants  and  fears, 
The  meteor  passions  of  lost  earth, 
The  wreck  and  ruin  of  long  years 
Dark  from  their  first  and  fatal  birth  ; 
But  tried  by  time,  beset  by  woe, 
Yet  doomed  to  crush  its  least  revealing, 
Lest  he,  thy  tyrant  lord,  should  throw 
Torture  o'er  quick  and  wounded  feeling ; 
Guarded,  without  a  ray  to  guide 
Thy  mind  beyond  its  hopeless  hell, 
The  spectacle  of  mammon  pride, 
That  glares  within  thy  lone  heart's  cell, 
'Till,  oh  !  thy  pale  and  awful  brow 
Reveals  to  all  thy  mournful  story — 
Such  is  thy  fate,  sweet  Clara  !  now ! 
Such  the  last  midnight  of  thy  glory  ! 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  207 

It  was  not  thus  when  first  we  met — 
Free  as  the  air,  fair  as  the  sky, 
And  soft  as  flowers  by  spring  dews  wet, 
All  heaven  seemed  floating  in  thine  eye, 
All  earth  grew  lovelier  'neath  thy  tread, 
And  poetry — the  soul  of  heaven — 
Crowned  with  the  charm  of  ages  fled, 
Went  forth  with  thee  at  starry  even. 
And  thou  wouldst  summon  round  thee,  then, 
The  shades  of  prophets  once  adored, 
And  people  every  mount  and  glen 
With  life — from  mind's  vast  ocean  poured; 
And  thou  the  priestess,  by  my  side, 
Didst  walk,  meantime,  unconscious  on, 
As  God's  own  stars  through  stormclouds  glide, 
And  murmur  love,— and  art  thou  gone?  °  ^ 

From  many  and  dark  adversities, 

By  felon  foes  and  fools  oppressed, 

Memory  to  thee  on  love's   wings  flies, 

And  on  thine  image  sinks  to  rest; 

Like  the  lone  dove,  that  found  no  home 

In  the  vast  world  of  waters  wild, 

I  cease  in  weariness  to  roam, 

And  find  earth's  heaven  where  thou  hast  smiled. 

Hast  smiled !  oh,  thou  wilt  smile  no  more, 

No  more  thy  voice  harp  on  the  breeze, 

For  love  and  love's  last  hope  are  o'er — 

All- -all  thy  full  heart's  psalteries  ! 

Brief  be  my  course,  if 't  is  but  bright ! 

I  said,  even  when  we  were  most  blest, 

And  now,  the  phantom  of  a  night, 

I  would  lie  down  and  be  at  rest 

With  all  Time's  blighted  hopes  and  hearts — 

The  martyrs  of  a  giant  doom, 

Where  mind  from  mind  no  longer  parts, 

And  heart  weds  heart — their  shrine,  the  tomb  ! 

'T  was  written !  and  we  could  not  change 

The  evil  fortune  of  our  love, 

And  through  misfortunes  dire  and  strange 

It  hath  been  our's  apart  to  rove, 


208  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 

Fulfilling  fate  and  proud  despair, 
Ay,  desolation's  matchless  pride — 
And  living  mid  the  things  that  were — 
Are  we  not  blest,  my  bosom's  bride  ? 
Are  we  not  blest,  that  fiends  have  done 
The  deadliest  deed  that  fiends  can  do ; 
And  that  for  us,  no  future  sun 
Hope's  vain  to-morrow  can  renew  ? 
The  troubled  trance  of  fear  hath  gone, 
The  fever  of  the  sleepless  spirit — 
Are  we  not  blest — most  blest — lost  one  ! 
No  mightier  grief  we  can  inherit ! 

'T  was  early  June — (how  memory  clings 
To  the  one  charm  of  glowing  youth, 
And  o'er  all  time  a  glory  flings 
From  one  quick  hour  of  love  and  truth  !) 
When  first,  by  Housatonic's  stream, 
And  'mid  the  woods  of  Ripton's  hills, 
We  met — was  't  not  a  heavenly  dream  ? 
We  loved  !  oh,  first  affection  fills 
Earth,  skies  and  stars — and  soareth  up 
To  Him,  whose  holiest  name  is  love, 
And  drinketh  at  the  kindling  cup 
By  seraphs  given  in  bowers  above  ! 
We  met — we  loved — and  we  forgot 
That  hate  and  danger  and  despair 
Watched  o'er  our  young  unguarded  lot, 
Like  Python  in  his  festering  lair  ; 
That  tortur'd  vows  pale  lips  had  pass'd, 
That  persecution  had  pursued 
The  heart,  that  loves  thee  to  the  last, 
E'en  to  remotest  solitude — 
And  that  we  never  could  be  one, 
Till  lust  of  gold  had  ceased  to  reign, 
Till,  by  the  waste  of  years  undone, 
We  clasped — and  died  in  age  and  pain  ! 

This  we  forgot  while  far  away 

From  hordes  of  slaves,  who  delve  and  grovel, 


SOXOS    TO    CLARA. 


And  deem'd  us  far  more  blest  than  they, 
Though  doomed  to  share  a  forest  hovel ; 
And  with  a  playful  earnestness, 
A  melancholy  mirth,  that  hid 
The  thoughts  it  could  not  all  suppress, 
And  raised,  as  't  were,  the  coffin-lid 
From  hope's  pale  face  to  gaze  farewell, 
Thou  badst  me  sing  a  cottage  song, 
Mid  the  dark  ledges  of  the  dell, 
And  thou  wouldst  sound  the  notes  along 
The  wildwood  glades  when  I  had  gone, 
And  cheer  the  gloom  by  thoughts  of  me  ! 
Thus  dream'd  we  once,  beloved  one ! 
No  more  such  hours  in  days  to  be  ! 
No  more  in  gentle  phantasies, 
Imagination's  robe  of  light, 
We  wrap  our  souls  and  breathe  the  breeze 
Whose  music  spirits  love  at  night ! 
Reason  and  c  ustom,  duties  cold, 
Harsh  interests  and  fashions  claim 
Two  burning  hearts  in  sorrow  old — 
Two  minds,  that  loved  the  flight  of  fame; 
And  we  must  sleep  to  dream  of  love, 
And  wake  to  mask  our  hearts  from  men, 
And  smile  in  bitter  grief  to  prove 
Earth  is  elysium — when,  oh,  when 
In  this  cold  world  shall  love  be  crown'd? 
When  shall  the  soul,  that  basks  in  bliss, 
To  holier  worlds,  from  earth's  dark  mound, 
Rise  to  love's  throne,  denied  in  this  ? 
O  Clara  !  Clara  !  wert  thou  blest, 
No  song  of  grief  from  me  should  swell, 
For  in  this  young  but  troubled  breast 
An  image  fair  as  thine  doth  dwell. 
But  thou  art  lost — and  I  must  feel 
The  fearful  fate  that  shadows  thee, 
And  oft  in  secret  places  kneel 
And  pray  for  thy  deep  misery. 
27 


210  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 

Assassin  husband !  felon  son ! 

A  MOTHER'S  bribe,  thy  victim  bride  ! 

Lo,  sacrilege  and  ruin  done  ! 

Go  !  triumph  in  thy  demon  pride  ! 


PART  V.     V 

When  grief,  that  well  might  humble,  swells  our  pride, 
And  pride,  increasing,  aggravates  our  grief, 
The  tempest  must  prevail  till  we  are  lost 

The  Fatal  Curiosity. 

AGES  of  thought — long  lingering  years 

Shadow  the  bloom  of  pleasures  fled, 
Unnumbered  hours  of  secret  tears 

In  Death's  cold  valley  vainly  shed  ; 
Yet,  not  the  less,  in  voiceless  grief, 

I  turn  from  cold  and  selfish  men, 
And  in  the  song  of  every  leaf 

Hear  the  same  tones  of  love,  as  when, 
In  happier  hours,  o'er  earth  and  sky 

Together  flew  our  spirits  blended, 
Each,  while  it  knew  the  other  nigh, 

Not  recking  where  or  how  it  wended, 

Wishing  the  clasp'd  flight  never  ended. 

I  wander  silent  and  alone, 

While  tears  lie  frozen  in  their  fountain, 
Down  the  wild  glen,  where  gloom  is  thrown 

From  the  cold  bosom  of  the  mountain  ; 
And  every  rock,  and  shrub,  and  tree 

Meet  me  like  friends  whose  faces  speak, 
In  sadness  and  solemnity, 

Dark  deeds  o'er  which  young  hearts  must  break  ; 
For  here  we  met  when  both  were  young, 

Though  thought  had  shadowed  thy  pale  brow, 
And  evil  o'er  my  soul  had  flung 

Gloom  that  is  lost  in  darkness  now : 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  211 

And  here — devoting  and  devoted, 

When  twilight  came  on  dusky  wings, 
And  stars  in  seas  of  azure  floated, 

And  the  pure  mind's  imaginings 
Rested,  like  spirits  in  the  air, 

O'er  the  blest  bowers  of  days  to  be, 
And  hope  prepared  her  banquet  there 

Amid  her  fairy  imagery — 
Often  we  roamed  in  silent  bliss 

Lovers — young  lovers  only  know, 
And  pictured  other  worlds  as  this 

Seemed  in  its  soft  and  sunny  glow  ; 
For  never  yet  did  bigot  creed 

Or  vaunted  faith  by  priest  belied, 
Or  outward  forms  for  hearts  that  bleed, 

Unmask  deceit  and  vanquish  pride, 
And  fill  the  conscious  soul  with  heaven, 

Like  early,  pure,  all-trusting  Love, 
Whose  whisper'd  prayers  at  morn  and  even, 

Mingle  with  glorious  strains  above. 

I  wander  now  unseen,  unknown, 

Save  by  The  Eye,  whose  glorious  light 
Descends  from  heaven's  immortal  throne, 

O'er  early  troubled  being's  night. 
The  charm  of  other  years  yet  lingers 

Around  the  solitary  scene, 
But  Memory,  with  a  spectre's  fingers, 

Scatters  torn  flowers  o'er  what  hath  been ; 
And  Echo,  from  the  rock-barr'd  dell, 

Whene'er  my  voice  in  anguish  calls, 
Sighs  in  the  breeze — « farewell !  farewell  !' 

— Then  silence  on  the  desert  falls  ! 
Though  I  have  roamed  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  lonely  wastes  of  troubled  years, 
I  cannot  part,  lost  one  !  from  thee, 

Pale  statue  by  a  fount  of  tears  ! 
Upward  I  cast  my  soul,  and  breathe 

The  light,  and  bliss  thy  name  inspires, 
And  from  the  realm  of  doubt  and  death, 

Like  music  from  a  thousand  lyres, 


212  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 

Thine  image  comes,  and  o'er  me  throws 

A  sadness  happier  far  than  mirth, 
A  holiness,  that  round  me  flows, 

Like  Heaven's  own  worship  heard  on  earth — 
Heard,  too,  when  scorpion  foes  assail, 

And  tempests  gather  vast  and  wild, 
And  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Mercy  fail 

To  cheer  Earth's  lone  and  friendless  child. 

E'en  in  the  glory  of  my  youth, 

Earth  entered  dreadiess  my  pure  heaven, 
And  the  world  mocked  my  spirit's  truth, 

And  left  me  by  the  lightning  riven; 
And  I  was  doomed,  when  midnight  fell, 

To  wander  by  the  lonesome  river, 
And  gaze  my  bosom's  last  farewell — 

And  hear  alone  the  spread  sails  quiver! 
Then  came  the  burning  wish  to  die, 

For  I  had  loved — and  time  could  bring 
No  happier  hour  beneath  the  sky — 

No  purer  draught  from  rapture's  spring  ; 
The  world,  with  all  its  passions,  seem'd 

A  shoreless  waste  where  phantoms  roam, 
Yet  well  I  knew  e'en  while  I  dreamed, 

The  stranger  hath  no  hope  or  home. 
Stranger  !  oh,  what  a  dreary  knell 

In  one's  own  glorious  land  of  birth, 
Where  Briton  hangmen  come  to  sell 

Blood  they  betrayed  on  tyrant  Earth ! 
These  thoughts  and  memories  can  but  haunt 

The  heart  that  knows  few  lovely  isles 
In  the  vast  sea  where  storm  and  want 

Pursue  with  dark  satanic  smiles. 
But  now  a  melancholy  gush 

Of  limpid  light  comes  o'er  my  bosom, 
And  its  soft  beams  of  beauty  flush 

The  withered  leaves  of  Love's  pale  blossom. 
I  stand  upon  the  same  wild  spot 

Where,  on  the  parting  eve,  we  stood, 
And,  Clara !  I  have  not  forgot 

The  aspect  of  yon  moonlight  wood. 


SON7GS  TO  CLARA.  213 

And  wooded  stream,  and  mountain  hoary, 

Nor  how  we  trod  the  midnight  waste, 
Like  them  who  live  in  deathless  story, 

And  clasped  and  kissed — where  is  the  past  ? 
Come  back,  pale  shadow  !  can  it  be 

The  enchantment  lives — the  enchantress  fled  ? 
— But  what  have  I  to  do  with  thee  I 

The  shrine  's  profaned — the  prophet  dead  ! 

I  did  not  think  to  unseal  again 

The  viewless  fountain  of  my  sorrow, 
For  while  we  writhe  in  bitter  pain, 

Wisdom  forbids  a  sigh  to  borrow; 
But  one  my  heart  holds  dear  hath  said 

"Where  is  she  now  ?"  and  yet  once  more, 
Lost  Clara  !  oh,  far  worse  than  dead  ! 

I  unto  thee  my  spirit  pour. 
Sever'd  below  by  hands  malign, 

Our  mutual  woes,  our  mutual  tears 
Can  mingle  at  Religion's  shrine, 

Undaunted  by  Earth's  deepest  fears  ; 
And  while,  beside  our  hearths,  arise 

Our  saddened  prayers  for  one  another, 
Thou  wilt  invoke,  from  purest  skies, 

Blessings  to  crown  thy  more  than  brother. 
And  I,  blest  Clara  !  while  the  cloud 

Of  envy,  hate  and  trial  gathers, 
Will  utter  thy  sweet  name  aloud, 

As  did  my  bold  chivalric  fathers, 
And  that  shall  be  my  watching  word, 

The  spell,  once  touched,  that  will  disclose 
Treasures  unknown  to  haughty  lord, 

Or  unto  all  my  fiendish  foes. 
Though  I  no  more  shall  see  thy  face — 

How  could  I  look  on  ruin,  Love? — 
Thine  image  hath  its  idol  place, 

And  wafts  my  stricken  heart  above, 
Where  Mind  shall  wander  as  it  wills, 

Unawed  by  guile  or  mammon's  wrath, 
And  hold  discourse  by  silvery  rills, 

Or  on  its  bright  and  glorious  path, 


214  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 

While  spirits  blest  shall  gaze  upon  us, 

And  murmur — "  have  we  loved  like  this  ?" 

And  we  shall  think  on  evil  done  us, 
But  to  perfect  our  endless  bliss. 


PART  VI. 

Let  no  man  seek 

Henceforth  to  be  foretold  what  shall  befall 
Him  or  his  children. — Milton. 

"  WREATHE  thou  the  laurel  with  the  bay, 

And  let  the  Poet's  triumph  be 

The  prelude  of  a  lovelier  day, 

The  seal  of  immortality  ! 

Crown  thou  the  brow  of  thought  divine 

With  glory  born  of  mind  below, 

And  fill^with  gifts  the  holy  shrine 

Where  hopeless  spirits  kneel  and  glow,. 

Not  with  the  light  of  joy  to  come, 

But  in  the  lurid  splendour  cast 

O'er  the  wild  story  of  their  doom 

From  the  soul's  morning  beauty  past ! 

So  to  lorn  love  thou  wilt  fulfil 

The  fate  denied  in  mortal  days, 

And  bear  affectionYharplike  thrill 

Through  allliearts  in  thy  living  lays1-" 

Thus,  as  ^beside  t'he  tomb  of  love, 

The  monument  of  Heloise, 

When  seraphs'from  air  thrones'above 

Leaned  and  sighed  music  on  the  breeze, 

I  stood  in  that  lone  hour  of  thought, 

Which  wafts  time's  shrouded  memories  on, 

And  pours  upon  the  waste  of  nought 

The  loveliness  of  rapture  flown, 

I  drank  from  spring's  all  spirit ^air 

The  accents  of  a  voice  unheard, 

And  clasped  one  bliss  in  life's  despair, 

One  thought  of  joy  that  in'me  stirred. 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  215 

"  Thou  of  the  bigot's  darkened  time !" 
(I  murmured  out  a  faint  reply,) 
"  Wert  doomed  to  bear  the  brand  of  crime 
In  the  heart's  home  of  ecstacy ; 
Martyr  and  mission'd  spirit,  sent 
From  throbbing  depths  of  holiest  skies, 
To  bless  earth's  love  in  banishment, 
And  gladden  loneliest  destinies; 
Come  from  the  fountain  home  of  heaven, 
Come  from  the  mountain  haunts  of  youth, 
And  o'er  me  shed  the  rapture  given 
To  first  love  in  the  years  of  truth  ! 
Give  to  the  glance  of  memory's  eye 
The  flight  of  hope  o'er  future  good, 
And  to  thy  temple  in  the  sky 
Summon  dark  thoughts  from  wave  and  wood  ! 
I  oft  have  bled  in  bitter  strife, 
I  oft  have  dwelt  in  lady's  bower, 
But  for  this  fated  gift,  earth's  life, 
'T  is  time's  worst  mock  and  hate's  worst  dower  ; 
Nought  in  its  heart  but  care  and  sorrow, 
In  anguish  born,  in  darkness  ending, 
Haunting  the  footprints  of  to-morrow, 
For  hope  towards  joy  in  shadows  tending  ! 
The  world  can  talk,  but  I  must  feel, 
And  men  can  counsel  while  I  sigh, 
Wealth  crowns  the  spirit  that  can  kneel, 
But  genius  heralds  destiny. 
They  murmur  error  payt — but  how  ? 
I  was  not  born  to  bend  and  bow, 
God  made  me  free  and  proud  and  just, 
Man,  this  dark  thing  of  fire  and  dust 
Thought  comes  not  from  the  mould  of  earth, 
Nor  feeling  from  the  merchant's  mart, 
And  Glory,  wed  to  Mind,  has  birth 
Alone  in  grief's  mausoleum  heart. 
Would'st  thou  know  more  ?  go  ask  the  fiend 
Why  he  veiled  not  his  seraph  head, 
Why  unto  man  he  scorned  to  bend 
The  brow  that  heaven's  own  glory  shed  ! 


216  SONGS  TO  CLARA. 

From  thy  shrined  tomb  in  Paraclete 

Breathe  yet  again  thy  spirit  o'er  me, 

And  I  may  better  learn  to  meet 

The  storms  and.  strife  that  gloom  before  me  ! 

Thy  cloistered  wisdom,  vesper  prayers, 

And  matin  hymns  of  hallowed  love, 

Shed  o'er  these  soft  translucent  airs, 

And  fill  me  with  the  bliss  above ! 

Tell  me  once  more  thy  pillow  now 

Is  Abelard's  long  widowed  bosom, 

And  smiles  may  light  my  clouded  brow, 

And  hope  breathe  life  o'er  youth's  dead  blossom  !" 

Doomed  'mid  a  selfish  herd  to  tread, 
To  loathe  yet  leave  not  life's  lone  way, 
To  breathe  despair  among  the  dead, 
And  seek  the  warmth,  yet  curse  the  day, 
To  stand  on  midnight  hills,  and  grasp 
At  glory's  shapes,  and  find  them  madness — 
This,  Clara,  since  our  last  wild  clasp, 
Hath  been  my  fate  in  silent  sadness. 
And  as  the  Meccan  pilgrim  wends 
^      Alone  along  the  waste  of  deach, 

And  cheers  him,  when  the  sand  storm  ends, 

With  the  blest  hope  of  Houri  wreath, 

So  I  through  living  solitude 

Thine  image  bear  with  lonely  joy, 

And,  shadowed  by  the  ancient  wood, 

Paint  thy  bright  features  on  the  sky. 

Then  should  I  not  invoke  the  past 

To  counsel  and  console  my  doom, 

And  deem  I  meet  thee  on  the  waste 

Where  towers  sublime  love's  lonely  tomb  ? 

Shall  not  my  spirit  hover  o'er 

Thy  slumbering  brow  and  bless  thee  there  ? 

And  on  thy  children's  bosoms  pour 

The  incense  of  a  holy  prayer  ? 

Sweet  Clara  !  let  me  breathe  my  heart 

Upon  those  amulets  of  bliss, 

And,  through  their  lips,  to  thee  impart 

The  rapture  of  a  farewell  kiss  ! 


SONGS  TO  CLARA.  217 

I  seek  not  wisdom  from  the  crowd 

Who  laugh  in  woe  to  worship  pride ; 

With  the  world's  men  I  can  be  proud, 

And  king  with  king  stand  side  by  side. 

I  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  God, 

And  deem  my  soul  hath  lost  its  sphere, 

For  some  strange  crime  doomed  to  this  sod, 

Buried  in  doubt  and  darkness  here ; 

I  sink  my  soul  within  the  soul 

That  lights,  with  heaven's  revealings,  earth, 

And  in  the  dust  before  The  Whole 

Drop  prostrate  into  deathless  birth ! 

But,  Clara  !  in  the  dawn  of  mind, 
In  the  young  glow,  the  gush  of  heart, 
Like  music  linked  to  autumn  wind, 
Our  spirits  wed — and  can  we  part  ? 
Can  time's  mildew  or  fading  flight 
Ruin  the  home  of  hope  we  built, 
And,  as  we  roam  through  storm  and  night, 
Our  meeting  bear  the  curse  of  guilt  ? 
Can  we  forget  how  oft  we  met, 
How  deeply  loved,  how  wildly  mourned, 
When  tearless  grief  and  vain  regret 
Before  love's  shrine  their  offering  burned  ? 
Can  we  forget  the  sacred  charm, 
The  midnight  hush  of  still  commune, 
While  the  heart  thrilled  each  folded  arm, 
And  hope  soared  up  beside  the  moon  ? 
Can  we  forget  the  starlight  sail 
On  Housatonic's  azure  breast  ? 
Can  memory,  mind,  and  love,  all  fail 
To  tell  us  that  we  have  been  blest  ? 
There  Js  not  a  grove  in  Ripton's  vale, 
There  's  not  a  flower  beside  the  river, 
That  breathes  not  out  Love's  mournful  tale, 
When  pale  leaves  in  the  cold  winds  quiver — 
And  shall  we  blot  from  life  the  hour 
That  sealed  us  for  undying  fate, 
28 


218  SONNET. 

And  o'er  the  bloom  of  young  Love's  bower 

Cast  the  world's  scorn  and  bitter  hate  ? 

I  hear  a  voice  from  oceans  past, 

The  heart's  knell  o'er  returnless  years  ; 

I  stand  upon  life's  shoreless  waste, 

The  haunt  and  home  of  buried  fears  ; 

And,  as  pale  shades  of  hope  flit  by, 

And  Love  in  tears  slow  follows  on, 

Missioned  to  one  eternity, 

That  bosoms  future,  present,  gone, 

I  cast  my  spirit  o'er  thy  name, 

And  deem  me  blest  by  Love's  lone  tomb, 

For  thou  to  me  art  hope  and  fame — 

The  Pleiad  of  the  world's  cold  gloom  ! 


SONNET. 

WELCOME,  Angelo  !  to  a  world  of  care  ! 
Fair  firstborn  of  my  youth,  thou  'rt  welcome  here  ! 
Thy  smile  can  charm  away  the  world's  despair, 
And  light  a  rainbow  in  the  heart's  wild  tear. 
Thy  quick  intelligence,  thy  winning  ways, 
Thy  deep  affection  in  life's  first  hours  shown, 
Thy  father's  spirit,  like  a  mantle,  thrown 
About  thee,  studded  by  the  pearly  rays 
That  float  like  music  round  the  faery  soul 
Of  thy  mild  cheerful  mother,  with  her  smiles 
Beaming  like  starlight  o'er  the  ocean's  isles, 
That  oft  deep  sorrow  from  my  heart  have  stole — 
These  blend,  my  boy  !  in  thy  dark  ardent  eyes 
Like  zodiacs  in  the  depth  of  heaven's  blue  skies  ! 


GRAVE  WATCHING. 


BRING  flowers  and  strew  them  here, 

The  loveliest  of  the  year, 
Withered,  yet  fragrant  as  her  virgin  fame, 

Who  slumbers  in  this  sunny  spot, 

Yet  to  Love's  voice  awaketh  not, 
Nor  hears  in  dreams  her  lover  sigh  her  name. 

Where  woods  o'er  waters  wave 

She  hath  her  early  grave, 
And  summer  breathes  lone  music  o'er  the  scene ; 

It  is  a  green  and  bloomy  place, 

And  smiling  like  her  living  face, 
Whom  memory  weeps  o'er,  sighing  "  She  hath  been  !" 

How  sacred  silence  lies 

With  dreamy  heart-filled  eyes, 
Shedding  its  spirit  o'er  the  wanderer's  heart, 

Beside  the  mound  of  dust, 

Where,  throned,  sit  hope  and  trust, 
Serenely  watching  awful  death  depart. 

In  sooth,  't  were  bliss  to  rest 

On  nature's  rosy  breast 
'Mid  all  this  sweetness,  quiet,  faith,  and  love, 

While  heaven's  soft  airs  flit  round 

The  still  and  hallowed  ground, 
And  the  blue  skies  lift  the  pure  soul  above. 

Albeit,  I  can  but  grieve 

That  thou,  pale  girl !  didst  leave 
Thy  lover  lone  in  such  a  world  as  this, 

Yet  tender  is  my  heart's  regret 

As  the  last  beam  of  suns  that  set 
To  rise  again,  like  thee,  my  love  !  in  bliss. 


220  GRAVE  WATCHING. 

Then  let  me  linger  here, 

Where  none  of  earth  appear, 
Save  gentle  spirits,  kindred  of  the  skies, 

And  muse  beside  the  gushing  spring, 

Where  wild  birds  carol  on  the  wing, 
And  live  as  thou  didst,  love !  on  harmonies. 

O'er  this  green  bank  of  flowers 

Hover  the  dew-eyed  hours, 
Blending  the  incense  breath  of  earth  and  heaven, 

As  thou  didst  hallow  time 

By  thoughts  and  deeds  sublime, 
And  seal  eternal  bliss  by  wrongs  forgiven. 

Inspire  me  with  thy  soul, 

And,  while  the  seasons  roll, 
No  evil  passion  shall  corrode  my  spirit ! 

I  can  forgive  my  fiercest  foes, 

And  think  not  o'er  inflicted  woes, 
While  I  thy  gentle  soul,  lost  love  !  inherit. 

What  holy  joy  attends 

Such  commerce  with  lost  friends, 
Lost  to  our  eyes  but  living  in  our  minds ! 

Their  memories  breathe  elysian  bliss 

Around  e'en  such  a  world  as  this, 
Like  Yemen's  odours  borne  on  genial  winds. 

Bring  flowers  and  strew  them  here, 

The  loveliest  of  the  year, 
And  I  will  watch  their  spirits  as  they  part ; 

For  in  a  place  so  green  and  still, 

'Mid  wood  and  water,  vale  and  hill, 
My  lost  love  dwells  forever  in  my  heart ! 


THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


Mordear  opprobriis  falsis,  mutemque  coloresl 

I  would  not  live  at  outrage  with  my  kind, 
Nor  mock  with  moans  the  flitting  mirth  of  man, 

But  offer  on  the  altar  of  my  mind 
The  love  that  thrilled  me  when  the  world  began ! 

I  have  not  struggled  with  the  wave  and  wind 
Vainly,  nor  sunk  beneath  the  torturer's  ban, 

And,  though  the  wild  storm  hath  not  ceased  to  roll, 

Yet  evil  passion  hath  not  soiled  my  soul. 

The  warlock  power  of  midnight  watching  thought. 
That  dwells  with  spirits  as  it  were  their  mate, 

Abides,  bold  prophet,  by  the  shrine  it  wrought, 
O'erlooks  pale  envy  and  transfixes  hate : 

And  courage,  daring  wrong,  that  feareth  nought, 
So  guilt  awake  no  fear  of  future  fate, 

Yet  waves  its  banner  o'er  the  trampled  field 

Where,  'mid  a  host,  one  stood  and  scorned  to  yield. 

Still  and  deep  orisons  in  my  loneliness, 

Thanks  that  God  gave  what  men  could  not  destroy, 
Have  oft  ascended  up,  nor  could  I  less, 

To  Him,  who  guards  the  widow's  friendless  boy ; 
And,  in  such  fervencies,  I  e'en  could  bless 

The  ministers  of  wrath  who  taught  me  joy 
In  the  unseen  communion  with  my  God, 
Who,  than  mine  own,  a  darker  pathway  trod. 

And  shall  I  then,  in  mock'd  prostration,  crave 
Mercy  from  merciless — from  demons  grace  1 

Time  roams  a  desert,  but  it  hath  a  wave 
Well'd  from  a  fount  unseen  by  human  face. 

Earth  hath  not  yet  nor  stained  man  made  a  slave 
Of  one  whose  soul  exults  to  own  his  race, 

And  to  my  foes  I  shall  not  render  now 

The  last  pale  light  that  wavers  round  my  brow. 


222  THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

The  solitary  mountain  when  young  Light 
Came  forth  to  drink  the  diamond  dew  of  spring  ; 

The  voiceless  vale,  where  in  still  grandeur,  Night 
Furled,  like  a  thron'd  archangel,  her  vast  wing : 

The  fluctuating  wood ;  the  sea  in  might 

And  majesty  matchless ;  each,  all  could  bring 

O'er  me,  from  earliest  hours,  the  Almighty  Form 

That  grasps  Eternities  and  stills  the  storm. 

And  when  upon  the  cataract's  quivering  verge 
Alone,  remote,  in  silence  I  have  stood, 

Shook  by  the  roar,  bewildered  by  the  surge, 
Yet  seeking  wisdom  from  the  maddened  flood  ; 

Oft  have  I  deemed,  thus  whirlwind  passions  urge 
Their  victims  o'er  the  precipice  of  blood — 

Thus,  like  these  waves,  hath  hate  relentless  passed 

O'er  me — yet  I  and  these  bold  rocks  stand  fast. 

Stand  fast  in  conscious  virtue  of  design, 

Though  worn  and  darkened  by  the  wave  and  cloud, 

In  injury,  thrice  blest  it  is  not  mine, 

In  much  love,  happier  than  the  world's  vain  crowd ; 

A  hearth  and  home,  though  humble,  and  a  shrine 
Of  hearts  exalted,  not  exulting  loud, 

I  have  not  failed  to  find  in  spite  of  scorn — 

And  thus  I  'm  blest  in  all  that  I  have  borne. 

As,  to  the  giant  minds  of  ages  old, 

All  hopes,  fears,  holies  thronged  around  the  throne 
Of  Jove,  the  Olympian  Thunderer,  so  unfold 

The  sanctities  of  nature  when  alone 
I  read  the  volume  to  my  eye  unrolled, 

And  catch  the  music  of  her  gentle  tone, 
As  she  instructs  me  to  forgive — and  learn 
Wisdom  from  dial,  horoscope,  and  urn. 

Never  to  court  the  gladiator's  wreath, 

Nor  crave  the  inconstant  worship  of  the  throng, 

Nor  seek  the  fame  which  hangs  on  human  breath, 
Nor  stain  my  spirit  by  a  conscious  wrong; 


THE  CONFESSIONAL.  223 

Thus  I  commune  with  destiny  and  death, 

And  pour  their  spirit  o'er  my  secret  song, 
Till  earth's  poor  vanities  and  men's  weak  praise 
Guide  not,  nor  govern  my  devoted  days. 

Thus  hallowed  sympathies  with  every  charm 

Of  beauty,  virtue,  knowledge  thrill  within 
The  fount  of  immortality,  and  arm 

The  fortitude  that  faints  'mid  human  sin  ; 
Thus  hopes,  that  fill  us  with  affections  warm, 

From  every  ill  delicious  pleasures  win, 
And  float  like  seraphs,  o'er  the  world,  to  bring 
From  paradise  to  earth  eternal  spring. 

From  summer  greenness  bliss,  from  every  flower, 
That  gems  the  wood  and  wold,  thought  gushes  forth, 

And  every  breeze,  that  wafts  the  parting  hour, 

Should  breathe  our  blessings  o'er  the  lovely  earth : 

All  are  not  evil,  though  the  common  dower 
Be  vanity  and  darkness  and  cold  dearth  ; 

With  the  tried  chosen,  truth,  love,  honour  dwell, 

That  on  them  from  ascending  martyrs  fell. 

Pure  mid  corruption  and  in  weakness  strong, 

True  with  the  treacherous,  with  the  changeling  firm, 

They  soothe  the  trembler,  hush  remembered  wrong, 
And  charm  the  gnawings  of  the  poison-worm  ; 

Blest  in  high  duty  that  endureth  long, 

E'en  their  deep  sufferings  bless  through  life's  brief  term, 

Exalt  and  purify  the  troubled  heart, 

And  then  like  rainbows  in  blue  heaven  depart. 

Then,  though  my  fortune  hath  been  cast  mid  thorns, 

And  persecution  hath  assailed  me  sore, 
With  rapture  still  and  radiant  as  the  morn's, 

I  walk  beside  ye  on  this  mortal  shore, 
Pilgrims  !  whose  presence  hallows  while  it  warns, 

As  on  to  heaven  ye  tend,  like  saints  of  yore. 
Ethereal  gleams  of  Good  yet  flame  abroad, 
And  light  our  pathway  to  the  throne  of  God, 


FANCY'S  FAITH. 


So  false,  so  frail,  and  yet  so  passing  fair ! 

So  very  beautiful  and  yet  so  lost 

To  every  hope  that  Beauty  must  inspire ! 

So  blessed  in  form  to  be  more  deeply  loathed  ! 

So  high  in  Heaven's  best  gifts,  and  yet  so  low 

In  their  misuse !  Shut  from  the  hallowed  shrine 

Of  a  pure  name,  thou  standest  by  the  gate 

Most  like  a  pillar  exquisitely  wrought 

For  an  immortal  monument  of  Love, 

Tho'  there  is  falsehood  in  thy  smile,  and  blight 

Upon  thy  lips,  and  ruin  in  thy  heart, 

And  every  evil  passion  unsubdued 

Rioting  in  thy  dark  spirit,  and  Despair 

The  tyrant  of  thy  unrepenting  soul ! 

Alas  !  that  hell  should  wear  the  form  of  Heaven  ! 

O  that  the  heart  had  in  itself  a  power, 

Subtle  and  piercing  like  the  air,  to  mark 

Pernicious  purposes,  and  baffle  all 

Midnight  conspiracies  that  wait  their  hour, 

Or  shun  the  peril  ere  the  breathless  time 

When  strength  draws  forth  its  armory  for  war ! 

Weep  !  that  the  ancient  days  have  gone  when  dreams 

Oracular,  or  hoary  prophets  warned, 

Or  Urim  showed,  as  in  a  burning  sea, 

The  winding  paths  of  evil,  and  the  foes 

That  skulked  in  hidden  refuges  for  spoil ! 

Weep  !  that  we  wander  in  uncertain  ways, 

By  certain  dangers  compassed,  unaware 

When,  how,  or  where  the  dark  assault  may  come  ! 

Virtue !  in  man  or  woman  (most  in  her, 

The  angel  of  his  home)supremely  fair 

In  image  and  in  action  !  why  art  thou 

Austere  in  thy  aspect  and  chilling  oft, 


225 

Scorning  bland  courtesies  and  manners  mild, 

When  high-bred  Vice  throws  o'er  her  nameless  deeds 

The  mellow  shadows  of  dissembling  smiles 

And  shrewd  hypocrisies,  that  charm  away 

The  fear  of  sin — and  dazzle  ere  they  kill  ? 

Why  on  thy  brow  should  sorrow  hold  her  throne, 

And  gloom  overcome  thy  spirit,  when  thou  art 

The  empress  of  so  large  a  heritage, 

A  boundless,  endless  kingdom,  fair  beyond 

The  poet's  twilight  imaging  ?  Blest  child 

Of  ihe  Immaculate  !  why  are  thy  paths 

So  perilous  and  rugged,  and  thy  lot 

So  lonely,  and  thy  heart  so  burden-bowed 

And  broken  ? — Guilt  looks  on  thy  fair  domain, 

With  an  inheritor's  bold,  gloating  eye, 

And  sits,  as  on  the  utmost  starry  top 

Of  Orizaba,  thron'd  ;  the  passing  world 

Look  up  and  wonder — shudder  and  adore  ! 

'Would  that  the  cynic  Heathen's  thought  were  done! 

So  each  would  know  the  other — truly  know — 

And,  knowing,  shun  his  deep  intents,  ere  yet 

Born  in  irrevocable  deeds  of  death  ! 

For  why  should  all  be  mockery  ?  Why  trust 

To  be  deceived  forever?  Soon  the  heart, 

Purpled  by  plague-spots — shares  the  guilt  it  fears, 

And  Vice  inherits  what  it  first  usurped. 

A  wayworn  pilgrim  o?er  a  desert  world, 
I  met  thee  with  an  ecstacy  of  heart 
Too  high  and  too  intense  for  Earth — and  then, 
Even  then — though  outwardly  surpassing  fair, 
O'ercanopied  by  floating  loveliness, 
And  moving  like  a  spirit  in  the  light 
Of  its  inspired  divinity  and  love — 
While  I  beheld  thee  with  a  saintlike  eye, 
Like  the  Madonna's  worshipper,  and  breathed 
The  air  that  kissed  thee  as  't  were  rare  perfume, 
Oh  !  then  thou  wert  sin's  victim — frailty's  child, 
Beyond  the  imagination  of  all  guilt, 
Cast  out  to  scorn  and  ruin  and  despair— 
29 


226 


A  tomb  o'erblazoned  by  men's  mockery, 

An  angel  form  inherited  by  fiends ! 

The  blossom  and  the  golden  fruit  were  fair, 

But,  ere  the  earl}  summer  days  were  past, 

The  Dead  Lake's  ashes  festered  all  the  core  ! 

Glory  was  in  the  rainbow — it  dissolved 

In  darkness,  lurid  clouds  and  bitter  tears  ! 

Oh !  I  did  love  thee  with  a  burning  heart, 

Triumphant  in  its  deep  devotedness 

And  eloquent  aspirings ;  and  thou  wert, 

For  one  all-passionate  hour,  the  very  dream 

Of  intellectual  Beauty — faery  light, 

And  joy  ineffable,  that  oft  had  passed 

O'er  me  in  earlier  days  of  high  romance. 

Alas!  the  doom  of  knowledge  !  and  alas  ! 

That  all  the  earnest  worship  and  pure  love 

Of  my  overflowing  spirit  should  be  cast 

Like  shattered  wrecks  upon  a  boundless  sea, 

And  all  the  tender  gushings  of  my  heart 

Driven  back  in  Alpine  torrents — cold  as  death  ! 

Why  didst  thou  crush  the  bud  ere  yet  it  bloomed? 

Or  why  come  o'er  my  nature  with  the  face 

Of  a  winged  seraph,  when  the  Demon's  eye 

Glared  through  the  soft  curls  of  thy  floating  hair? 

When  Beauty  smiled  in  radiant  Glory's  arms, 

My  earlier  Fancy  dreamed  of  such  as  thou 

Didst  seem  ; — and  I  have  basked  in  such  sweet  dreams, 

Till  the  green  earth  and  azure  sky  appeared 

Too  lovely — too  beloved  for  this  brief  hour 

Of  lingering  trial  for  a  happier  world. 

I  once  had  catholic  faith  in  everything 

The  spirit  pictured  in  its  fairy  moods  ; 

But  now  I  '11  dream  no  more,  nor  longer  trust 

Extrinsic  beauty,  foreign  ornament, 

The  garniture  of  falsehood  ;  for  without 

The  magic  of  a  consecrated  mind, 

Guarded  by  cherubim,  and  inly  filled 

With  images  of  moral  loveliness, 

Vain  as  the  bright  flamingo's  shadow,  cast 

Upon  the  running  brook,  are  all  the  charms 

That  mask  the  treachery  of  an  evil  heart. 


THE   SUNSET  VOICE. 


SOFTLY  o'er  yon  far  uplands  blue 

The  solemn  shades  of  evening  steal, 
Like  dim  still  thoughts  that  would  renew 

The  hopes  't  was  bliss  in  youth  to  feel; 
And  many  a  tall  outbranching  tree 

Seems  to  repose  on  that  pale  sky, 
Like  hearts,  from  human  trial  free, 

Upon  a  blest  eternity  ! 
Serene  as  reckless  childhood's  sleep, 

Or  souls  accepted  in  their  sorrow, 
The  breeze  floats  o'er  the  upper  deep 

Eastward  to  hail  a  fair  to-morrow ; 
And  still  the  hues  of  sunset  dwell 

High  in  the  summer  vault  of  heaven, 
O'er  passionate  thoughts  to  cast  a  spell, 

That  seals  all  earthly  wrongs  forgiven. 
And,  oh!  how  blest,  mid  every  ill, 

The  spirit  that  can  gently  think — 
*  Ye  did  forsake  and  wrong  me — still 

*  Drink  not  the  cup  ye  bade  me  drink, 
'  Feel  not  the  woes  ye  wrought  for  me, 

'  Bear  not  the  fate  that  1  have  borne ! 
'  But  may  the  voice  of  Nature  be, 

(«  At  glimmering  eve,  or  glorious  morn) 
'  The  voice  that  calls  ye  back  once  more 

'  From  the  wild  maze  of  evil  past ; 
'  Then  gaze  on  landscape,  sea  and  shore, 

*  And  weep  and  be  forgiven  !'  The  last 
Of  all  my  thoughts  hath  ever  been 

Hate  or  revenge,  for  Nature  threw 
O'er  me  in  early  youth  serene 

A  heaven  of  thought,  and,  like  the  dew, 


228  THE    SUNSET    VOICE. 

I  could  have  kissed  each  shrub  and  flower, 

And  wept  upon  the  fresh  green  earth, 
Till  the  eternal  morning  hour 

Bore  me  unto  my  heavenly  birth. 
Misfortune  called  my  mind  away 

From  sunny  hills  and  wandering  streams, 
But  yet  I  drank  the  light  of  day, 

The  morning  blaze,  the  evening  gleams, 
And  saw  and  felt  that  Earth  was  made 

For  happier  hearts  than  dwell  therein, 
And  grieved  that  Guilt's  funereal  shade 

Should  darken  e'en  the  gloom  of  Sin. 
And  I  was  happy,  though  my  head 
Was  pillowed  in  the  poor  man's  shed, 
For  none  but  hearts  long  tried  can  know 
What  bliss  may  mingle  with  their  woe. 

So  I  went  forth — the  world  my  home — 

My  own  unshielded  destiny, 
On  a  wide,  stormy  sea  to  roam, 

And  only  one  to  care  for  me. 
The  flood  grew  dark — the  waters  wailed — 

The  sun  went  down — I  stood  alone, 
And  through  the  living  darkness  hailed 

A  light  that  bore  me  cheerly  on, 
O'er  reefs  and  shoals,  by  leeward  shore, 

(Tempests  above,  and  rocks  beneath,) 
Where  stood  my  foes,  with  many  an  oar, 

To  drown  my  corse— and  deaden  death. 
On — on  I  rushed — all  sails  were  spread, 

Though  wilder  grew  the  storm  of  wrath, 
For  still  unto  myself  I  said 

'  If  I  must  perish — Ocean  hath 
'  Ten  thousand  coral  tombs  prepared, 

*  And  all  shall  see,  and  feel,  and  know 
'  That  what  I  dared  in  death  was  dared, 

*  And  where  I  triumphed— there  was  woe  !' 
My  barque  flew  fast  through  all  that  night, 

But  helm  and  cord  were  in  my  hand, 
And  still  prevailed  my  guiding  light 
Along  that  dark  and  ruthless  strand, 


THE  SUNSET  VOICE.  229 

And  oft  my  quickened  sense  could  catch 

The  exulting  cry  of  foes  on  shore, 
As  nearer  to  their  demon  watch 

My  bounding  vessel  madly  bore. 

'    '  •  ';'(.?.''•  '"i  (     .'      . r"- 

This  I  have  borne— and  I  can  bear 

More  than  the  fiends  of  earth  can  do, 
Nor  shrink,  nor  faint  in  mute  despair, 

But  keep  the  light  of  heaven  in  view  ; 
Liars  have  shed  their  venom  o'er  me, 

And  barr'd  my  path  and  snatched  my  bread, 
And  poured  their  own  vile  blood  before  me, 

And  sworn  't  was  blood  that  I  had  shed; 
But,  till  the  moment  they  can  feel 

Such  gentle  thoughts  as  o'er  me  flow, 
While  I  behold  the  shadows  steal 

O'er  hill,  and  stream,  and  vale  below, 
I  shall  notjgrieve  that  they  have  cast 

The  world's  cold  nightshade  o'er  my  heart, 
For — dark  howe'er  the  long,  lone  past — 

My  own  is  far  the  better  part. 


THE   SACHEM'S   CHANT. 

THE  Mohican-hittuck*  rolls  grandly  by, 

Mid  the  bloom  of  the  earth  and  the  beam  of  the  sky, 

And  its  waters  are  blue  and  bri'ght  and  blest 

As  the  realms  of  the  Red  Man's  god  of  rest, 

And  the  gentle  music,  they  leave  along, 

Is  an  echoed  strain  of  the  spirit's  song. 

The  Mohican-hittuck  glides  softly  on, 
Like  holy  thoughts  o'er  the  glorious  gone, 
And  the  sign  of  the  stream  through  forests  dim 
Blends  with  the  winds  in  their  twilight  hymn ; 
While  the  shadows  are  folding  round  rock  and  height, 
And  the  dead  are  abroad  on  the  wings  of  night. 

The  Mohican-hittuck  sweeps  darkly  past, 
Like  the  storm  of  death  o'er  the  Red  Man  cast  ; 
And  the  gathering  tempest  o'er  earth  and  sky 
Reveals  our  doom  to  the  prophet's  eye — 
The  exile's  lot — the  slave's  despair — 
The  darkened  sunbeam  and  poisoned  air ! 

The  Mohican-hittuck's  shore  replied, 

When  its  sons  roamed  free  in  their  warrior  pride, 

To  the  harvest  song,  to  the  seedtime  mirth, 

And  the  bridal  bliss  on  the  blooming  earth  ; 

We  breathe  not  a  beam  of  sun  or  star. 

For  dark  is  the  brow  of  YOHEWAH  ! 

Where  Mohican-hittuck  mid  isles  careers, 
And  meets  with  a  smile  the  Salt  Lake's  tears, 
The  White  Man's  barque,  like  a  wind-god  hung, 
And  the  powwahs  to  welcome  it  danced  and  sung; — 
For  the  lands  we  gave  to  the  stranger  we  reapt 
Plague,  poison  and  madness— and  warriors  wept ! 

*  The  aboriginal  name  of  the  Hudson  river.    . 


THE  SACHEM'S  CHANT.  231 

The  Mohican-hittuck — our  own  proud  river — 
The  glorious  gift  of  the  Spirit  Giver, 
Bears  on  its  bosom  the  booty  won 
From  the  slaughtered  chieftain's  banished  son, 
And  the  paleface  Sage,  ere  he  meets  his  God, 
Would  mark  with  our  blood  the  path  he  trod. 


The  Mohican-hittuck's  hills  have  heard 

j 


The  Indian's  thoughts  as  his  spirit  stirred, 


And,  even  now,  thy  waves  grow  dim, 
River  !  as  awful  memories  swim, 
Like  the  Wielder's  bolts  on  an  autumn  even, 
O'er  the  billowy  clouds  of  a  hurtling  heaven. 

The  Mohican-hittuck's  secret  dells 

Feel  the  Indian's  breath  as  it  pants  and  swells,1' 

And  every  wood  on  its  banks  returns 

The  shriek  of  the  heart  as  it  slowly  burns  ! 

The  ghosts  of  my  fathers  like  giants  appear, 

And  the  shades  of  the  weak  ones  in  sorrow  and  fear. 

Oh,  Mohican-hittuck — the  wave  of  my  birth  ! 

The  loveliest  stream  that  laves  the  green  earth ! 

ELOHA  calls  me  and  ROWAH  replies  ! 

I  leave  thee,  blue  stream  !  for  the  wild  mountain  skies. 

Yet  fast  as  thy  waves  to  the  ocean  advance, 

Will  thy  bloom  and  thy  gleam  o'er  my  lone  spirit  glance. 

Oh,  Mohican-hittuck !  no  more  by  thy  stream 
Shall  the  forms  of  the  slain  like  icy  lights  gleam  ; 
No  longer  the  voice  from  the  bosom  of  glory 
Gather  grandeur  and  wisdom  to  learn  their  proud  story. 
Twice  vanish  the  Nations  from  realms  of  the  west, 
But  Vengeance  shall  start  from  our  last  home  of  rest ! 


THE  TREASURE  OF  THE  FOREST. 

His  (the  Pequod's)  first  step  towards  taking  possession  of  his  valuable  inheritance 
was  in  direct  violation  of  the  injunctions  of  the  Indian  ;  and  so  far  did  he  disregard  the 
fidelity  of  his  ancestors  as  to  consent  that  a  white  man  should  acxr- 
share  in  his  discoveries. 

THEIR  path  grows  dark  through  the  wildwood  dell, 
And  the  wolf's  long  howl  and  the  panther's  yell, 
And  the  dusky  owlet's  crooning  cry, 
With  the  wild  dove's  wail  of  melody, 
And  the  serpent's  hiss  in  his  peopled  den, 
Alone  are  heard  in  the  rentrock  glen: 
And  on  in  silent  fear 

The  wanderers  thread  their  way, 
And  their  daring  steps  draw  near 

Where  the  Forest  Treasures  lay. 

>T  is  morn  on  the  skycrown'd  hills,  but  dun 
And  dusk  the  light  of  the  orient  sun ; 
Night's  shadows  float  o'er  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  the  mist's  gray  folds  still  roll  below,  ^ 
And  bird  and  beast  from  their  sleepless  lair 
In  amaze  look  forth  on  the  strange  dim  air, 

Then  quick  shrink  back  again 
In  trembling  awe  and  dread, 

And  on  the  Travellers  twain 
With  hurried  footfalls  tread. 

Their  path  grows  dark  through  the  forest  shade, 
And  the  hues  of  morn  begin  to  fade, 
And  the  lurid  light  on  the  stormclouds  lies 
Like  hell  in  the  dying  murderer's  eyes, 
While  the  thunder's  voice  peals  loud  and  high 
O'er  the  darkening  earth  and  the  lightning  sky. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  roar 
Long  lonesome  yells  arise, 

And  from  mountain,  wood  and  shore, 
Ascend  unearthly  cries. 


THE  TREASURE  OF  THE  FOREST.  233 

Look  well  to  thy  path,  false  Oulamar  ! 
Hearst  thou  those  voices  that  wail  afar  ? 
Pale  son  of  white  clay  !  beware — beware  ! 
The  bow  is  bent  and  the  arrow  there, 
And  a  stern  arm  wield's  in  this  dark  hour 
The  deathman's  axe  with  a  fearful  power ! 

Pause  in  thy  daring  quest 
Ere  ruthless  wrath  awake  ! 

Seest  thou  that  dragon  crest  ? 
Hearest  thou  that  bickering  snake  ? 

The  rifted  rocks,  where  the  hazel  grows, 
Whose  mystic  power  will  the  mine  disclose, 
They  reach  unscathed — but  the  white  man  there 
Is  chained  in  his  motionless,  mute  despair. — 
The  Chief  hath  pass'd,  and  the  mountain  's  still 
As  the  lucid  lapse  of  a  landscape  rill ; 

The  white  man's  heart  throbs  sound 
Like  the  tramp  of  many  men, 

And  his  brain  whirls  round  and  round 
As  he  gazes  down  the  glen. 

There  's  a  rush  of  wings  in  the  dusky  air, 
And  a  lengthening  shriek  of  last  despair, 
And  strange  dark  forms  in  a  host  pass  by, 
Like  midnight  shades  o'er  the  fairbrow'd  sky, 
And  a  demon  laugh  from  the  gloom  bursts  out, 
And  a  wail  of  woe  and  a  mournful  shout. 

The  stranger  heard  no  more — 
Fear  froze  his  curdling  blood  ; 

And  the  thunder  ceased  to  roar 

Through  the  lone  and  moaning  wood. 

Who  passes  there  like  the  samiel  wind, 
Or  the  arrowy  flash  of  the  electric  mind  1 
His  feathery  crest  and  his  quivered  bow 
And  his  mantle  lie  in  the  dell  below, 

30 


234  THE  TREASURE  OF  THE  FOREST. 

But  where,  oh,  where  hath  the  Pequod  gone 
Through  the  pathless  woods,  like  a  birdbolt  flown  ? 
Hark  !  't  is  the  Indian's  foot 

O'er  the  rock  and  chasm  bounding  ? 
Or  is  't  the  far  owl's  hoot 

Through  mountain  passes  sounding  ? 

No  !  't  was  a  voice  like  the  trumpet's  blast, 
And  thus  o'er  the  hills  its  wild  notes  pass'd : 
"  Woe  to  the  traitor !  his  days  are  done  ! 
"  His  glory  's  ended — his  race  is  run ! 
"  His  bow  's  unbent  and  his  arrows  lost, 
"  And  his  name  struck  from  the  warrior  host ! 

"  Woe  to  the  traitor,  woe  ! 

"  The  huntsman's  pride  is  o'er  !" 

A  shout  pealed  from  the  mountain's  brow — 
"  Amen  !  for  evermore !" 

"  On  the  secret  cave  where  the  Treasure  lies 
"  The  Pequod  looked  with  a  white  man's  eyes, 
"  And  his  soul  was  seared  by  the  mystic  fire 
"  That  withers  the  heart  of  curs'd  desire, 
"  And  in  fear  he  fled  from  the  holy  place, 
"  The  last,  the  worst  of  his  warrior  race. 

"  Woe  to  the  traitor,  woe  ! 
"  The  Indian's  glory  's  o'er !" 

A  wail  rolled  o'er  the  mountain's  brow, 
"  Alas  !  for  evermore  !" 

"  Where  now  is  the  traitor,  Oulamar  ?" 

"  His  deathsong  rolls  on  the  winds  afar — 

"  The  Pequod  dies,  and  his  bones  shall  lie 

"  'Neath  the  storm  and  blast  of  the  northern  sky, 

"  And  the  white  man's  quest  in  vain  shall  be 

"  For  the  Forest  Gems  and  the  Treasure  Tree  ! 

"  Woe  to  the  white  man,  woe  !" 
Bursts  forth  the  darkened  sun — 

The  mountain  woods  like  magic  glow — 
And  the  holy  work  is  done ! 


THE  SULIOTE  POLEMARQUE, 


?T  is  sunset  o'er  Oraco's  vale 

And  old  Dodona's  holy  woods, 
Where  lingers  many  a  glorious  tale 

Shrined  in  those  holy  solitudes ; 
And  through  Klissura's  dim  defile, 

As  pours  Voioussa's  mountain  flood, 
Its  dark  waves  catch  a  sunlight  smile 

Along  the  lonely  pass  of  blood  ; 
And  Pindus  wears  a  robe  of  light 

Through  all  his  rugged  mountain  range, 
Like  spirits  throned  where  chance  and  blight 

Come  not,  nor  sin  nor  any  change  ; 
And  on  the  Cassopean  Height 

The  Kunghi — fortress  of  the  brave, 
Like  dark  clouds  on  a  lurid  night, 

Hangs  threatening  o'er  the  Ionian  wave. 

'T  is  midnight :  and  a  Suliote  band 

Of  faint  and  famished  ones  pass  on 
In  silence — exiles  from  that  Land 

Where  deathless  deeds  were  vainly  done, 
And  through  a  deep,  wild,  wooded  dell 

The  last  hope  of  the  Suliote  name 
Tread  trembling  where  their  fathers  fell, 

The  eternal  heirs  of  Grecian  fame, 
And  often  back  their  dim  eyes  turn, 

In  love  yet  lingering  mid  despair, 
Where  beacon  lights  of  glory  burn 

Amid  proud  Freedom's  mountain  air. 
But  few  can  now  find  free  abode 

On  those  wild  cliffs  where  temples  erst 
Rose,  crown'd  with  glory,  to  each  god, 

Whose  presence  from  the  starr'd  skies  burst ! 


236  THE  SULIOTE  POLEMARQUE. 

They  leave  their  childhood's  sunny  home, 

The  birth  place  of  their  love  and  pride, 
In  utter  outcast  misery  roam 

Where  food  and  shelter  are  denied, 
And  by  the  wayside  die,  or  see 

Their  hearts'  fair  blossoms  torn  away, 
(The  rich  buds  of  a  withering  tree,) 

Too  near  to  death  to  weep  or  pray. 
Such  the  dark  doom  of  Freedom's  'sons — 

Such  AH  Asian's  tyrant  wrath — 
And  forth  the  lone  despairing  ones 

Move  feebly  on  their  mountain  path. 

"  God  of  the  Brave  !  they  little  know, 

"  Yon  heart-sick  band,  what  perils  wait, 
"  What  terrors  lower  from  Kunghi's  brow, 

"  Worst  than  the  wildest  work  of  hate. 
"  Let  AH  Asian  tread  these  towers, 

"  And  dare  the  doom  he  taught  the  slave ! 
"  Few  are  the  turban'd  despot's  hours — 

"  'T  is  Freedom— -Glory— or  the  Grave !" 
So  spake  the  high-souled  Caloyer, 

The  Polemarque  of  Suli's  band : 
The  man  whose  trumpet  voice  could  stir 

The  faintest  heart  in  all  the  land  : 
As  round  upon  a  score  of  men 

Sworn  on  that  gory  rock  to  die, 
He  glanced  in  lofty  pride  and  then 

Raised  unto  heaven  his  warrior  eye. 
"  Lift  the  Red  Banner  !  by  our  wrath 

"  This  naked  rock  shall  dearer  cost 
"  Than  all  Janina's  pacha  hath ; 

"  Or  all  we  have  for  ages  lost ! 
"  Lift  the  Red  Banner  !  let  him  come, 

"  And  brothers !  Jt  will  be  heaven  to  die, 
•«  Our  birthplace  for  our  trophied  tomb, 

"  Our  death,  our  immortality ! 
— "  Brave  Palikars !  they  come,  they  come  !" 

Each  in  the  full  heart's  silence  stood, 
Thought  of  lost  hope  and  ruined  home, 

And  deep  revenge  in  Othman  blood. 


THE  SULIOTE  POLEMARQUE.  237 

"  They  come !  they  come !  now  stand  apart 

"  With  torches  in  your  red  right  hands, 
"  And  by  the  wrongs  of  every  heart, 

"  Where  this  proud  tower  on  Pindus  stands, 
"  The  Suliote's  grave  shall  be — and  there 

"  The  victim  victors  with  their  foes 
"  Shall  sleep  mid  their  own  mountain  air 

"  Free  till  life's  latest  heart  pulse  close  !" 
They  come — the  Pacha's  Arnaut  host, 

With  gleaming  spears  and  scimitars  ; 
They  come — Epirus'  warrior  boast 

To  meet  the  Suliote  palikars. 
But  still  as  Tadmor's  ruined  halls 

KiafTa  lowers,  and  one  alone 
With  a  deep  voice  on  AH  calls  ; 

"  Come,  spoiler,  tyrant !  haste — come  on  ! 
"  With  myrmidon  and  minstrel  come, 

"  With  dagger,  sabre,  lance  and  gong, 
"  With  banner  wrought  in  hell's  black  loom, 

"  With  dark  heart  drenched  in  human  wrong  ! 
"  Come !  we  will  meet  thee  as  the  slave 

"  Meets  in  despair  his  tyrant — come  ! 
"  Kiaffa  is  the  Suliote's  grave, 

"  Or  Ali  Asian's  final  home  !" 

Thousands  the  rocks  on  thousands  climb, 

And  rush  through  Suli's  silent  tower, 
And  rapture  thrills  the  soul  sublime 

Of  that  lone  man  at  life's  last  hour. 
"  Yes,  I  will  lead  the  Conqueror's  way, — 

"  Why  loiters  now  the  Conqueror's  tread  ? 
"  Let  Ali  mark  his  brightest  day, 

"  And  hear  the  council  of  the  dead  !" 
And,  driven  on  by  spear  and  brand, 

Through  darkened  vaults  and  winding  aisles, 
He  trod  like  one  who  held  command 

O'er  vast  lands  where  one  summer  smiles ; 
And  every  solemn  step  was  heard 

Mid  all  the  din  of  wild  pursuit, 
As  if  a  Hero's  Spectre  stirred 

At  every  echo  of  his  foot. 


238  THE  SULIOTE  POLEMARQUE. 

Onward  through  mazy  paths  he  trod 

And  thousands  followed  hurriedly, 
When  loudly — "  In  the  name  of  God ! 

"  Death  on  the  shrine  of  Liberty  !" 
The  Caloyer's  high  voice  went  forth, 

"  Death  to  the  tyrant  and  the  slave ! 
"  Death  on  the  spot  that  gave  us  birth ! 

"  Revenge  triumphant  o'er  the  grave  ! 
"  Revenge  for  home,  hope,  country  gone ! 

"  Revenge  for  bondage  borne  in  vain  ! 
"  Revenge  for  each  loved,  honoured  one  ! 

"  Revenge  for  all !"  He  fired  the  train  ! 
The  fire  ran,  leapt  and  burst  and  flew 

Through  all  the  vaulted  magazine, 
And  dark  as  fiends  the  Moslems  grew — 

The  Suliotes  knelt  and  prayed  serene. 
Each  for  one  moment — seas  of  flame 

Burst  through  vast  rocks  that  had  withstood 
The  skill  of  many  a  vaunted  name, 

The  earthquake  and  the  boundless  flood. 
The  mountain  sprang  asunder  then ; 

And,  mid  a  storm  of  shattered  rocks, 
The  arms  and  limbs  of  thousand  men 

Flew  through  the  air  in  blackened  flocks, 
And  mid  the  glare  and  gloom — the  roar, 

The  wreck,  the  ruin,  upward  rose, 
Like  the  mind's  glance,  o'er  tower  and  shore, 

A  Form  that  triumphed  o'er  his  foes : 
Blackened  and  rent,  with  hands  outspread, 

And  blood-shot  eyes  and  lava  lips, 
And  sword  and  torch,  as  when  he  said — 

"  His  hands  in  blood  proud  AH  dips — 
"  Here  let  us  grapple  eye  to  eye  !" 

O'er  the  haught  Pacha's  head  he  rode 
Like  a  quenched  meteor  through  the  sky — 

The  awful  ruin  of  a  god  !* 


Whenever  the  word  God  occurs  in  the  author's  compositions  without  a  capital  and 
double  emphasis,  the  reader  will  consider  the  epithet  merely  as  significant  of  extraordi 
nary  not  almighty  Power. 


SONG.  239 


So  Suli's  cliffs  and  crags  became 

A  lurid  mass  of  fire  and  blood, 
The  home  of  havoc  and  of  flame, 

Where  Freedom  in  her  death  hour  stood, 
Where  tyrants  ne'er  shall  dare  to  stand, 

While  Suli's  sons  on  earth  draw  breath, 
In  that  proud,  holy,  stoned  Land 

Where  Glory  lights  the  realms  of  Death. 


SONG. 

As  blend  the  hues  of  earth  and  heaven, 

By  fountains  hymning  Love, 
Thy  voice  and  smile,  at  twilight  even, 

Haunt  every  whispering  grove; 
The  clouds,  thy  throne — the  stars,  thine  eyes, 

The  diamond  vault,  thy  brow — 
Why  should  I  quench  these  ecstacies 

Without  a  prayer  and  vow  ? 
Why  should  the  burning  glance  of  mind 

On  Memory's  ruin  gleam, 
When  warcries  thrill  the  morning  wind — 

Love  voices,  evening's  beam  ? 
Should  doubt  and  gloom  pervade  the  heart 

Where  Love  with  Fame  reposes  ? 
And  Hope,  the  rainbow  seraph,  part 

From  Pleasure's  realm  of  roses  ? 
When  Peril  round  the  banner  rallies 

Of  heroes  wrapt  in  war, 
Should  sighs  and  tears  in  woodland  vallies 

Dim  each  triumphant  star  ? 
No  ! — Glory  is  the  lord  of  Love, 

His  triumph-cries,  its  pinions ; 
The  palm-crown,  borne  by  Beauty's  dove, 

Waves  o'er  the  world's  dominions  ! 


REMEMBERED  WRONGS. 


WHY,  what  know  ye  of  hearts  that  mirror  Heaven  ? 

Outcast  adorers  of  the  daemon's  will ! 

Have  ye  not  long,  hyaena  harpies  !  striven 

To  awe  me  from  the  path  I  follow  still  ? 

Your  sacrifice  is  sacrilege — your  oaths 

The  gamester's  oracles ;  and  shall  I  fear 

The  hideous-bodied  Sin  my  spirit  loathes, 

Or  gore  my  heart  and  lend  a  suppliant's  ear 

To  treason's  counsel  shared  among  the  crowd 

Of  villain- workers  who  beset  my  way  ? 

No !  better  fester  in  oblivion's  shroud, 

And  shrink,  like  lazars,  from  the  sun  away ! 

I  deem  not  ill  the  toil  and  sorrow  past, 

For  I  have  found,  earth  fiends  !  my  strength  at  last. 

And  ye  shall  feel  and  fear  it  who  have  dared 
To  leprosy  my  name  with  your  foul  breath  ; 
For  not  in  vain  have  I  my  bosom  bared, 
Passed  fiery  ordeals  and  confronted  death. 
Worms  of  the  dust !  in  amber  ye  may  live, 
Who  are  not  worthy  of  a  just  man's  scorn, 
And  I  will  e'en  put  off  my  power  and  give 
Your  characters  unto  the  light  of  morn  ; 
For  have  not  altered  eyes  been  on  me  cast, 
And  tales  of  hell  against  me  buflfetted  ? 
And  friends  familiar  unsaluting  passed 
With  conscious  spirit  and  averted  head  ? 
And  shall  I  bear  the  scorn  of  apes,  and  not, 
While  in  me  dwells  the  power,  espouse  my  just 
Well-tested  cause  ? — Ye  shall  not  be  forgot, 
Artificers  of  lies !  be  this  your  trust. 
Well  have  I  read  the  ritual  of  your  creed, 
And  if  I  brand  the  iron  on  the  brow 
With  a  soft  maiden  hand — why,  let  me  bleed, 
The  martyred  victim  ye  would  have  me  now ! 


REMEMBERED  WRONGS.  241 

Meantime,  be  this  the  poet's  palinode 
To  all  who  trampled  on  his  heart  in  youth, 
Barred  his  lone  path,  denied  his  head  abode, 
Wrung  his  wrought  spirit  and  blasphemed  his  truth  ! 
To  each  and  all,  who,  envy's  vassals  dared 
To  mock,  howl,  yell  their  lies  through  woe's  midnight, 
And  'mong  their  horde  the  pangs  of  suffering  shared, 
Be  this  the  orison  of  my  wrested  Right. 

Be  thou  forever  what  thou  art, 
A  breathing  tomb,  a  human  hell, 
A  Moloch  mind,  a  daemon  heart, 
A  thing  't  would  blast  my  soul  to  tell ! 
Be  thou  the  loathed,  the  abhorred  of  Time, 
Till  age,  all  hoar  with  guilt  and  woe, 
Shall  quail,  cower,  drivel — steeped  in  crime — 
In  its  dark  home  of  hate  below  ! 
Be  round  thee  ever  shapes  of  sin, 
The  images  of  thine  own  thought, 
Luring  thee  on  at  last  to  win 
The  myriad  woes,  thy  wiles  have  wrought ! 
Scorn,  curse,  defy,  denounce,  despair — 
Spread  miseries  round  thee,  and  implore 
The  fiend-gods  of  earth,  ocean,  air, 
To  aid  thee  ! — thou  couldst  do  no  more. 
But  I  have  stood  beside  my  hearth, 
And  heard  the  torrent  rage  along, 
With  nought  to  cheer  me  on  the  earth, 
But  household  love  and  midnight  song. 
I  shrunk  not  when  the  arrows  fell — 
Fled  not  the  plague  thy  fangs  hissed  out, — 
But  roamed  at  eve  through  copse  and  dell, 
And  dimm'd  no  hope  of  heaven  with  doubt. 
Thy  wrath  is  spent — thy  vengeance  hurled — 
The  woe  was  mine — the  power  is  now, 
And  thou  shalt  cower  before  the  world, 
A  felon  with  a  branded  brow. 
O,  could  I  speak  the  withering  spell, 
That  blights  the  brain,  and  sears  the  heart,  i 

Thou  tomb  of  hate,  thou  human  hell, 
My  spell  should  doom  thee — what  thou  art ! 
31 


M  PIMENTO  MORI. 


TIME  takes  its  colouring  from  the  spirit's  shrine, 

And  season  sad  or  gay, 
And  memory  paints,  in  rainbow  hues  divine, 

Scenes  long  since  pass'd  away. 

As  hours  are  woven  in  the  web  of  years, 

The  mazy  threads  are  dyed 
In  the  deep  fountain  of  our  hopes  or  fears, 

Our  passions,  love  and  pride. 

And  oft,  while  sunny  smiles  glance  o'er  the  brow, 

From  the  heart's  depths  will  rise 
Lone  buried  grief — as  o'er  a  mount  of  snow 

Clouds  fall  from  winter  skies. 

Through  worlds  of  shattered  thoughts  and  hopeless  loves, 

In  lonely  grandeur  on, 
The  broken  spirit  uncommuning  roves, 

And  weeps  o'er  beauty  gone. 

To  the  dark  land  of  silence  they  have  passed, 

The  young,  the  brave,  the  fair ; 
Ten  thousand  voices  swell  on  every  blast, 

But  voice  alone  is  there  ! 

Where  dwell  their  spirits '(  In  the  summer  breeze, 

Soft  sounds  are  round  us  swelling, 
And  a  still  gladness  fills  the  heart — but  these 

Can  have  no  earthly  dwelling. 

Aerial  music  floats  along  the  sky, 

But  comes — we  know  not  how  ; 
Wild  airs  to  warn  us  that  we  soon  must  die — 

And  be  what  all  we  loved  are  now ! 


MEMENTO  MORI.  243 

Lim  broken  gleams  of  momentary  light 

Mysterious  glimpses  give 
Of  that  strange  Realm  of  Souls,  where  all  is  night, 

And  shadows  only  live. 

Oh  !  nothing  can  be  known — man  breathes  and  dies, 

And  nations  pass  away ; 
And  empires  perish — but  yon  far  blue  skies 

Reveal  no  brighter  day. 

Not  thus,  howe'er,  passed  human  life  with  thee, 

Thou  loved  and  lovely  shade  ! 
Thy  spirit  left  dark  Earth  from  sin  as  free 

As  when  in  glory  made. 

And  thou  wert  taken  from  the  ills  to  come, 

Like  dew  by  morning  sun ; 
And  birdlike  sung  to  thine  ethereal  home, 

Ere  sorrow  had  begun. 

Oh,  when,  young  orphans  in  our  budding  years, 

Our  world  was  in  each  other, 
I  little  dreamed  of  vain  unwitnessed  tears — 

For  thou  didst  love  thy  brother! 

I  could  not  think,  I  was  so  happy  then, 

Thine  eyes  would  close  in  death, 
And  I  be  left  among  the  sons  of  men — 

A  being  but  in  breath. 

Yet,  oh,  I  dare  not  grieve  that  thou  hast  gone 

From  this  lone  world  of  wo — 
Hadst  thou  partaken  of  earth's  sin,  loved  one ! 

I  had  not  loved  thee  so  ! 

I  bear  thine  image  in  my  heart,  and  there 

It  lives,  and  breathes,  and  glows — 
And  thou  shall  be  my  refuge  in  despair, 

Till  life's  wild  visions  close. 


THE  AUSPICES. 


I  never  thought,  in  my  younger  years, 

When  the  sky  was  my  spirit's  home, 

And  I  drank  at  the  cup  of  rapture's  tears 

And  longed  like  a  star  to  roam, 

That  my  brightest  hope  would  fade  like  dew, 

And  my  proudest  dream  depart, 

And  all  prove  false  that  seemed  most  true 

To  a  still  and  thoughtful  heart. 

I  thought  not  that  blue  hill  and  stream 
Could  be  seen  by  a  reckless  eye ; 
That  I  should  shun  the  softest  gleam 
Of  the  sunny  sea  and  sky ; 
That  the  cross  of  care  and  the  spell  of  woe 
Would  change  my  deepest  feeling, 
And  leave  me  alone  in  grief  to  know 
That  my  spirit  is  past  all  healing. 

The  faces  and  forms  of  silent  things 
Were  my  bliss  in  earlier  hours, 
The  dryads  that  dwell  by  forest  springs, 
And  the  nymphs  of  wildwood  bowers  ; 
But  the  dreams  of  morn  and  sunset  dim 
Have  gone  from  my  spirit  now, 
And  I  have  chanted  my  latest  hymn 
From  the  mountain's  misty  brow. 

But  it  recks  not  what  I  felt  in  days 

Unblest  in  their  earliest  breaking, 

For  the  time  hath  passed  when  I  sighed  for  praise, 

And  t  mourn  not  friends  forsaking ; 


THE  AUSPICES.  245 


They  have  left  me  at  an  early  time, 

And  I  wander  on  untended, 

But  my  heart  is  free  from  the  stain  of  crime, 

And  I  pass  not  on  unfriended. 

My  mind  has  searched  to  the  depth  of  things, 

And  it  dwells  and  toils  alone, 

Waiting  to  soar  on  its  tireless  wings 

To  a  high  and  holy  throne. 

No  fruit  or  flower  its  toil  may  crown, 

But  it  hath  in  itself  a  power, 

That  will  not  sink  in  sadness  down 

Till  its  last  departing  hour. 

For  o'er  the  heart  long  sternly  tried 

A  sightless  spirit  throws 

The  radiant  might  of  a  seraph's  pride, 

And  a  bliss  that  ever  glows. 

Though  the  mock  and  scorn  and  libel  low 

Of  the  coward  may  assail, 

Yet  the  guarded  mind  can  never  bow, 

Nor  the  conscious  triumph  fail. 

I  had  friends  once  —  I  have  dark  foes  now  — 

They  wronged  me  while  confiding  ! 

I  marvel  not  at  a  broken  vow  — 

Their  Truth  knows  not  abiding. 

But  they  have  not  power  to  dim  one  ray 

Of  the  soul  my  GOD  hath  given, 

And  I  patiently  wait  a  brighter  day 

That  will  dawn  in  a  holy  Heaven. 


THE   POET'S    NIGHT   SOLITUDE. 


'WOULD  that  I  were  the  spirit  of  yon  star, 

That  seems  a  diamond  on  the  throne  of  heaven  ! 

'Would  that  my  holiest  thought  could  ever  dwell 

Mid  the  unsearchable  vastness  of  the  sky  ! 

For  't  is  deep  midnight :  and  bland  stillness  sleeps 

On  dewy  grove  and  waveless  stream,  and  airs, 

Floating  about  like  heavenly  visitants, 

Breathe  o'er  the  slumbering  flowers,  and  leafy  woods, 

Such  holy  music  as  the  tired  heart  loves — 

Low,  murmuring,  melancholy  strains — so  soft 

The  ear  scarce  catches  sound,  though  deeply  feels 

The  hushed  communing  heart  the  influence 

Of  their  lone  oracles  ! — Departed  hours 

Of  mingled  bane  and  bliss — of  hope  and  fear — 

Of  faithless  friendship — unrequited  love — 

Unshared  misfortune,  undeserved  reproach — 

And  humbled  pride — and  dark  despondency — 

Hours  of  high  thought  and  silent  intercourse 

With  the  old  seers  and  sages,  when  the  soul 

Walked  solemnly  beside  departed  bards 

And  lion-hearted  martyrs  ;  and  o'erveiled 

Forest  and  hill,  and  vale,  and  rivulet, 

With  the  deep  glorious  majesty  of  mind ! 

Shadowing,  with  a  most  dainty  phantasy, 

The  cold  and  harsh  realities  of  things, 

With  the  divine  undying  dawn  of  heaven, 

Whose  beauty  blossoms  and  whose  glory  burns  ! 

At  such  a  time  of  thoughtful  loneliness 
Ye  come  like  seraph  shades,  and  bear  me  back, 
On  darkened  wings,  to  earlier  passages 
Scarce  less  unblest  than  present  years  of  grief 
I  grope  through  now  ! — But  woes,  once  borne,  become 
Strange  pleasures  to  our  memory ;  the  Past 


247 


Hath  its  romance — its  mellow  lights  and  shades, 
Soothing  deep  sadness  like  the  brightest  hope 
That  bursts  upon  the  future.     While  we  gaze 
Down  the  dark  vista,  where  in  bitter  pain 
And  weariness  and  solitude  of  soul, 
We  long  have  roamed  forsaken — all  the  scene 
Assumes  a  calm  repose,  a  verdure  mild 
As  midnight  music,  and  our  hearts  o'ergush 
With  tearful  tenderness.     O,  there  is  bliss 
E'en  in  the  darkest  memory — a  depth 
Of  passion  that  now  slumbers,  and  of  thought, 
Though  voiceless,  eloquent  and  full  of  power, 
Which  leaves  all  common  hope,  in  life's  routine, 
Dim  and  delusive  as  the  fire-fly's  light. 

Full  orbed  in  pearly  beauty  walks  the  moon, 
Flinging  on  fleecy  clouds  soft  gleams  of  light, 
That  silver  every  fair  and  floating  fold 
Mid  the  blue  ether — while  her  beams  below 
On  slumbering  vale  and  cliff,  and  haunted  wood, 
And  broad  deep  stream,  an  awful  wilderness, 
Fall  at  the  outskirts  of  vast  shadowings, 
Like  heaven's  great  light  on  wings  of  angels  thrown. 
And  now  the  breeze,  in  music's  fitful  gush, 
Harps  mid  the  osiers  and  wide  harvest  lakes 
Of  grass  and  grain — and  then  the  voices  rise 
Of  fays  and  fairies  in  the  fir-wood  near. 

Now  sleepless  bard — who  never  is  alone — 
May  mingle  with  the  harmony  of  Heaven, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  evil  of  the  world  ; 
His  heart  may  banquet  on  each  gentle  scene 
Of  loveliness,  and  shrink  not  back  aghast 
As  from  the  mock  and  scoff  malign  of  men. 
To  voices  soft  as  sighs  of  sleeping  flowers 
And  tender  as  a  fair  young  mother's  kiss, 
His  spirit  listens  in  its  joy.     On  him 
The  beauty  of  the  old  astrology, 
The  silent  hymn  of  heaven  in  starlight  falls; 


248 


And  alchemy  bestows  its  choicest  lore, 
And  poetry,  with  all  its  holiness, 
Sinks  gently  o'er  him  like  the  early  dew 
On  the  fair  foliage  of  the  Hesperides. 

The  cricket  sings,  the  aspen  twinkles  quick 
Beneath  the  moonbeam,  and  the  waters  purl 
O'er  shining  pebbles  and  by  wildwood  banks 
As  if  blest  life  in  every  drop  prevailed. 
The  deep  enchanted  forests  seem  to  bend, 
And  make  no  sound  through  their  vast  solitudes, 
As  If  they  deeply  listened  to  THE  VOICE, 
Whose  whisper  fills  the  universe.     O'er  all, 
Waters  and  woods,  mountains  and  valleys  deep, 
A  spirit  reigns  whose  secret  counsel  heals 
The  goaded  mind  and  wasted  heart,  and  guides 
Ill-fortuned  dwellers  of  the  earth  to  peace ; 
And  he  is  wise,  who,  in  his  budding  youth, 
Casting  aside  the  paltry  pride  of  praise, 
In  the  night  season  leaveth  strife  and  care 
And  vain  ambition,  to  go  forth  and  drink 
The  music  and  the  blessedness  of  earth, 
While  man  forgets  the  God  he  scorns  by  day. 
Reclining  on  the  moonlight  rocks,  he  sees 
The  proud  Orion,  the  soft  Pleiades, 
And  every  glorious  constellation  move 
With  light  and  hymn  of  worship,  and  his  soul 
O'erleaps  the  feuds  and  falsehoods  of  the  world, 
The  trembling  and  the  triumph  of  an  hour, 
And  mingles  with  the  universal  Deity. 
The  warring  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Sink,  then,  to  rest;  bright  angel  forms  repose 
By  piny  woods  and  shady  waterfalls, 
And  seraph  voices  sing  of  heaven  and  love 
In  every  leaf  stirr'd  by  the  vesper  airs. 
And  this  communion  of  upsoaring  thought, 
This  conscious  inspiration  (holier  far 
Than  Delphic  oracles  or  hermit's  dream,) 
Becomes  our  earthly  paradise,  when  gleams 
Of  worlds  inscrutable  flash  through  the  gloom 


SONNET.  249 

Of  this  our  sinning  nature,  body-bowed, 
And  the  accepted  words  of  ancient  men, 
Gifted  beyond  their  age  and  station  here, 
Become  assured  revealings  of  that  life 
All  hope  to  gain  but  few  dare  think  upon, 
As  wisdom  thinks,  who  dwells  not  with  the  vain, 
The  greedy  and  the  proud,  but  hath  her  throne 
In  the  pure  heart,  whose  ever-living  Hope 
Glows  like  a  lone  star  in  the  depth  of  Heaven. 


SONNET. 


How  like  Divinity  this  soft,  still  eve ! 
The  sun  of  Autumn,  like  a  god,  is  setting, 
And,  oh,  the  beauty  tempts  me  to  forgetting 

Those  giant  ills  that  long  have  made  me  grieve. 

Bright  angels  seem  reposing  on  yon  verge 
Of  billowy  light,  and  from  their  airy  wings, 
Fanning  infinity,  a  perfume  springs, 

Like  cherub  breathings.     The  low  lulling  surge, 

Breaking  far  o'er  the  shelly  beach — the  deep 
Soft  music  of  the  groves — the  whirl  and  rush 
Of  dropping  sere  leaves  and  the  trickling  gush 

Of  rivulets  that  from  the  brown  cliffs  leap — 
This  dying  loveliness  melts  all  my  woes, 
And  hallows  sorrows  death  alone  can  close! 


32 

., 


THE   AUTUMNAL   EVE. 


Smiles  on  past  Misfortune's  brow 

Soft  Reflection's  hand  can  trace, 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  sorrow  throw 
A  melancholy  grace.  Gray. 

How  bland  and  beautiful  this  stilly  Eve! 

The  Autumnal  sun  sinks  glorious  to  his  rest, 
And  hearts  o'erworn  may  now  in  joyance  leave 

Dark  care,  and  dwell  in  Nature's  blessing  blest. 
Lo  !  how  the  mottled  clouds  drink  in  the  hues 

Of  the  far  sun,  while  silent  shadows  wave 
O'er  wooded  vales,  as  erst  the  holier  muse 

O'er  Tempe  shook  her  purpled  wings  and  gave 
Mysterious  glories  to  the  holy  few 

Who  dared  to  dwell  in  solitude,  and  be 
Their  own  one  world,  creating  from  the  dew 

And  sun,  things  beautiful  celestially. 
And  look  thou,  with  a  meditative  eye, 

Where  with  a  slow  and  solemn  motion,  glides 
The  full  moon  tow'rd  her  palace  in  the  sky, 

Casting  her  power  upon  the  rushing  tides ! 
With  what  a  softened  and  serene  delight 

Up  from  the  blue  horizon,  meek  and  pale, 
Dian  ascends,  and  at  the  noon  of  night 

Bends  o'er  to  hear  the  timid  lover's  tale ! 

The  deep  lone  twilight  of  the  soundless  woods 

Floating  below  while  all  is  bright  above, 
Comes  o'er  the  spirit  in  its  dreamy  moods, 

Like  images  of  blest  remembered  love — 
— Blest  in  its  young  fair  spring  and  full  of  buds, 

From  whose  soft  bosoms  fragrant  flowers  looked  forth, 
Ere  came  the  mildew  blight,  the  waste  of  floods, 

The  desolation  of  the  virgin  earth  ! 


THE  AUTUMNAL  EVE.  251 

And  the  deep  glory  of  the  pictured  skies, 

Albeit  vanishing  as  visions  are, 
Throws  o'er  the  hills  the  light  of  angel  eyes, 

The  smile  of  every  seraph  from  his  star. 
As  memory  bears  above  all  earthly  woes 

The  radiant  features  of  a  well  loved  face, 
Lost  in  this  life,  but  waiting,  at  its  close, 

To  smile  above  with  all  Love's  matchless  grace. 
Touched  by  the  molten  beams  that  burst  along 

Yon  glorious  company  of  clouds,  each  tree 
Seems  to  lift  up  its  sweet  but  voiceless  song, 

And  bend  its  crowned  head  to  Deity. 
And  rivulets,  that  revel  on  their  way 

Through  meadows  green,  and  over  hanging  woods, 
Gurgle  and  gleam  their  blithe  farewell  to  day, 

And  onward  leap  through  darkening  solitudes. 
The  leaves  grow  crisp  and  sere,  and  yet  they  greet 

Chill  airs  that  kiss  and  kill  them,  as  the  maid 
Rejoices,  e'en  in  death,  the  smile  to  meet 

Of  him  who  slew  her  with  glozed  words,  and  bade 
The  tortured  and  wrecked  heart  believe  and  bear, 

In  silence  and  good  cheer,  the  last  rebuke 
Of  eyes  remorseless  over  her  despair, — 

And  conscious  guilt,  that  slayeth  with  a  look. 
The  homilies  we  read  on  autumn  eves, 

Beneath  the  vast  blue  vault  of  yon  calm  sky, 
The  eloquent  rustle  of  the  blighted  leaves, 

The  universal  readiness  to  die — 
The  lore  of  cloisters  or  of  councils  far 

Transcend,  in  sight  of  Him,  whose  seasons  come 
Like  oracles  to  warn  us  what  we  are, 

And,  in  their  lapse,  to  bear  our  spirits  home. 
Who  doles  out  doits  to  mendicants,  and  wears 

The  rough  rock  in  his  prayers,  contemning  men 
But  where  his  pride  exacts  their  plaudits,  bears, 

In  convent  gloom,  or  shagged  lonely  glen, 
A  haughty  heart,  which  He  accepteth  not 

Who  doth  rejoice  in  cheerfulness  and  mirth 
Chastened  by  love,  that  from  one  sacred  spot 

Pours  its  soft  glory  over  all  the  earth, 


252  THE  AUTUMNAL  EVE. 

But  he,  whose  spirit  holds,  through  every  change, 

With  sun,  moon,  stars,  hills,  vales  and  shrubs  and  flowers, 
The  commune  of  devotion,  ne'er  can  range 

Beyond  the  guidance  of  those  holy  Powers, 
Which  give  to  earth  its  beauty,  and  to  man 

His  conscious  triumph  over  sin  and  death, 
And  unto  heaven  the  glories  that  began 

When  from  the  first  heart  gushed  the  vital  breath. 
The  cricket's  chirup — I  remember  well 

It  was  the  music  of  my  boyhood,  when 
My  heart  overflowed  with  thoughts  I  could  not  tell 

To  worldly  wise  and  world  devoted  men ; 
And  it  comes  o'er  me  like  the  tones  once  heard 

Breathing  affection  at  a  time  estranged : 
'T  is  sweeter  than  the  song  of  any  bird — 

I  heard  it  ere  my  wayward  fortunes  changed  ! 
The  whip-poor-will — its  slow,  unchanging  chant, 

Its  lone,  unlistened,  melancholy  song 
Hath  sadly  cheered  me  in  each  woe  and  want, 

And  sorrow,  and  bereavement,  and  deep  wrong ; 
For  I  have  lived  unseen,  like  that  poor  thing, 

And  sung  unheard,  unsolaced,  and  in  vain 
As  that  doth  ever — and  I  cannot  fling 

My  early  thoughts  aside,  nor  rend  in  twain 
The  mantle  that  hath  wrapt  my  silent  breast, 

To  join  the  revel  of  the  world,  and  feel 
No  more  as  I  have  felt,  when,  calmly  blest, 

That  lone  bird's  notes  had  power  to  lull  and  heal. 
No  more  in  plashy  brook  web-footed  fowl 

Plunge  with  their  tender  brood  in  moulting  glee, — 
Wails  the  wild  heron,  hoots  the  cynic  owl, 

From  reedy  marsh  and  thunderstricken  tree. 
Like  summer  morning  friends,  the  dryades 

No  more  glide  through  the  shadows  of  the  grove  ; 
Their  whispers  steal  not  through  the  moaning  trees : 

Their  smiles  salute  not  young  and  holy  love. 
But  by  the  reeking  frith  the  torpid  hind 

Weaves  wattles  mopingly  the  livelong  day; 
Throwing  all  thought  upon  the  whiffling  wind, 

He  whistles  time  and  rankling  care  away. 


THE  AUTUMNAL  EVE.  253 

He  knows  not  mind  ;  its  agony  and  pride  ; 

Its  secret  rapture  and  its  public  woe ; 
Dull  as  the  dank  lagoon,  his  seasons  glide — 

He  little  gains,  and  nothing  can  bestow — 
No  alms  to  soothe  despair  or  wan  disease, 

Nor  heartfelt  words  of  solace,  hope  and  health; 
Like  matted  weeds  on  lone,  unvoyaged  seas, 

He  breathes  and  dies — his  wherry  all  his  wealth. 
Dredging  the  slimy  depth  of  waters  dark, 

He  marks  not  nature  but  to  serve  his  toil ; 
Hushed  Twilight  lights  and  guides  his  trundling  bark ; 

He  gropes  and  drudges  'neath  the  morning's  smile. 

+ 
Not  thus  like  hutted  peasant,  spectre  led, 

Soulless  in  sunshine,  quaking  in  the  shade, 
At  morn  the  living,  and  at  eve  the  dead, 

The  bard  beholds  before  his  eye  arrayed ; 
In  every  leaf  there  's  music  to  his  ear, 

In  every  rivulet  and  every  breeze  ; 
He  knoweth  not  the  shapes  of  earthly  Fear, 

In  the  deep  fear  of  Heaven,  that  quelleth  these. 
To  the  divinity,  that  dwells  within 

And  sheds  o'er  earth  and  heaven  its  glorious  light, 
Nature  becomes  beloved  and  akin, 

And,  as  celestials,  pure  and  deeply  bright. 
Mind  wanders  forth,  and  throws  o'er  every  flower, 

And  lake,  and  wood,  or  shaken  or  serene, 
The  deathless  memory  of  some  hallowed  hour, 

The  deep  affection  of  some  trying  scene ; 
And  field  and  forest  are  companions  bound 

To  gifted  hearts,  by  ties  no  power  can  rend  ; 
The  soul  may  mingle  with  a  half  heard  sound, 

And  float  in  raptures  that  can  have  no  end. 

The  timid  throstle  still  a  few  low  notes 

Pours  forth,  preluding  her  farewell  to  frost ; 

On  sylvan  scenes  beloved  the  robin  dotes, 
Loth  to  believe  his  springtime  pleasures  lost. 

Grasshoppers  pitter  on  the  mead  no  more, 

The  nighthawk's  swoop  sounds  faintly  in  the  air, 


254  SONNET. 

The  twittering  swallow  mourns  the  season  o'er, 
And  'mid  her  ruins,  Nature  kneels  in  prayer 

That  He  whose  smile  spread  beauty  o'er  her  brow, 
And  clothed  with  loveliness  the  cheerful  earth, 

Will  guide  wayfaring  man  through  drifted  snow, 

And  pour  his  peace  and  love  around  the  household  hearth. 


SONNET. 


WHAT  are  the  Past  and  Future  ?     Shadows,  lit 

By  the  mind's  twilight  bloom,  and  all  too  dim 

For  clear  perception ;  far  and  faint  they  swim 

Before  the  visionary's  eye  and  flit 

Away  in  dusky  folds,  whose  ourskirts  wear 

A  mellow  glow  awhile  and  then  resume 

Oblivion's  sable  tinges.     In  the  gloom 

Of  the  o'ershadowed  Past,  with  pensive  air, 

Pale  Memory  sits  beside  a  sculptured  urn, 

Chanting  the  requiem  of  joys  long-fled  ; 

And  flickering  tapers,  for  the  parted  dead, 

Around  her  wasted  form  forever  burn  ; 

But  Hope,  on  sunlight  pinions,  soars  on  high, 

And  hath  her  throne  and  glory  in  the  sky. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH. 


There  is  a  tale  in  Scandinavian  Legends  that  a  miner,  who  was  betrothed,  perished 
mysteriously  on  the  very  eve  of  his  appointed  bridal ;  and  that  many  years  afterwards, 
when  she,  who  should  have  been  his  bride,  had  grown  old  in  holy  celibacy,  the  petrified 
body  of  her  lover  was  discovered  in  the  depth  of  a  disused  and  dilapidated  mine.  The 
body  was  instantly  recognized  by  the  bereaved  and  unblest  lady,  who  died  upon  its 
bosom. 

*•  ,",,,,,,,,.  ,     ,  .  ,  ,  .        --       ,:;.,,      jf        ._  -  .     ,  ,       '      .     .  T  . 

YE  high  Divinities !  who  erst  abode 

Amid  the  haunted  woods  of  Ida's  mount, 

Or  'neath  Leucadia's  brow,  when  Paris  gave 

The  golden  fruit  to  Venus  and  the  Maid 

Sappho,  for  love  of  faithless   Phaon,  sought 

The  still  companionship  of  seanymphs,  crowned 

With  wreaths  of  pearl  and  coral !  Sad  as  words 

Of  comfort  to  a  sick  and  wasted  heart 

Have  ever  been  your  oracles  ;  the  voice 

Of  shrined  Apollo  from  his  temple  comes, 

Like  winds  from  the  wild  heavens  when  surging  seas 

Burst  o'er  the  shattered  bark.     Alas  for  Love 

And  Beauty !  their  torn  blossoms  strew  the  waste 

Of  human  life — and  Genius  is  but  woe. 

Another  song  of  sorrow  !  mortal  bliss, 

Is  voiceless,  echoless,  and  Love,  once  crown'd, 

No  more  is  left — but  grief  is  eloquent- 

Far  in  that  northern  land  and  mid  those  hills 
Where  wandering  Vasa,  among  faithful  hearts, 
Found  welcome  refuge  in  his  trying  hour, 
Two  Lovers  dwelt,  of  low  degree  with  men, 
Of  hard  conditions  and  restrained  desires, 
But  gentle  hearts  and  unsoiled  consciences. 
The  waxing  and  the  waning  moon  on  them 
Shed  her  pure  pearly  light  and  every  star 
Listened  upon  its  throne  to  their  discourse 


256  THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH. 

Nightly,  with  smiles  that  came  like  music  down. 
By  day,  Leoni  toiled  in  darksome  mines 
With  the  cheered  spirit  of  prophetic  hope, 
And  as  he  gazed  upon  the  precious  ore 
Delved  from  the  depth,  he  felt  how  void  and  vain 
Were  affluence  without  the  heart's  best  wealth  ; 
How  welcome,  with  Luzelia  a  few  coins, 
How  vile,  without  her,  all  Golconda's  gems  ! 
Thus  Love  transfuses  its  own  light  o'er  all 
The  trials  and  privations  of  our  lot, 
From  evil  winneth  good,  from  poverty 
Wealth  unimagined,  and  from  toil  repose 
Through  starry  hours  beneath  green  canopies. 
Thus  Love  becomes  unto  itself  a  power 
Supreme  o'er  great  obstructions,  and  all  things 
Of  beauty  are  its  household  teraphim, — 
Sweet  images  of  hopes  that  rest  among 
The  days  of  sunny  loveliness  to  come. 

So  they  lived  on  in  unremitted  toil 

Each  for  the  other,  and  the  lights  and  shades 

Of  thought,  sequestered  to  one  little  spot, 

passed  o'er  them  like  the  shadows  of  white  clouds, 

Breeze  wafted,  o'er  the  mirror'd  summer  stream. 

Passion,  with  all  its  fears  and  jealousies, 

And  fevered  aspirations  and  regrets, 

And  dark  repinings  and  intense  desires, 

They  knew  not,  felt  not,  feared  not  its  power. 

Amid  the  solitude  of  simple  life 

Love  is  a  deep  conviction  of  the  heart, 

A  dewy  flower,  that,  circled  by  green  leaves, 

Breathes  the  blest  air  of  heaven,  itself  as  blest ; 

A  still  and  hidden  brook,  that  glides  along, 

Known  only  by  the  greenness  of  its  banks ; 

A  spirit,  like  its  mountain  home  of  birth, 

Mighty  though  meek,  pavilioned  in  the  skies, 

Yet  all  benignant  to  the  smiling  earth  ; 

A  quiet  thought  that  dwells  and  works  unseen 

But  in  the  charm  of  its  accomplishment, 

Ever  attendant,  watchful,  true  in  faith, 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH.  257 

A  guide  and  guard  through  peril,  and  in  want 

A  tender  solace,  as  in  joy  a  crown. 

The  Lovers  talked  and  counselled  and  communed 

Confidingly  as  wedded  hearts  should  do, 

And  both  together  coffer'd  up  a  hoard, 

(Scant  means  are  ample  where  the  wants  are  few,) 

To  signalize   tomorrow's  bridal  feast. 

Tomorrow  !  't  is  the  changing  dream  of  hope, 
The  vision  of  the  weary  hearted  in  the  depth 
Of  solitary  suffering,  and  the  crown 
Of  many  a  proudly  imaged  enterprise 
That  never  was  accomplished.     O  Tomorrow  ! 
Crowds  of  strange  deeds  and  unfulfilled  events 
Lie  unrevealed  in  thy  dark  mysteries, 
And  many  an  eye  desireth  to  behold 
The  book  of  knowledge  though  ?t  is  written  there, 
(And  prayers  the  dread  decree  cannot  reverse,) 
That  death  or  dread  disaster  hasteneth  on  ! 
***** 

— The  bridal-banquet  waits — hath  waited  long — 
Why  cometh  not  the  bridegroom  ?     Up  and  down 
Luzelia  wanders,  from  the  window  place 
Looks  forth  with  restless  eyes,  and  doubtfully 
Questions  his  absence — but  none  give  reply. 
Night  wears  away — the  bidden  guests  depart, 
Eloquent  in  dim  surmises  and  vague  fears, 
Some  scoffing  at  the  lover's  faithlessness, 
And  some  repining  o'er  their  lack  of  cheer, 
And  some,  more  thoughtful,  (age  and  trial  give 
A  tone  of  prophecy  to  many  a  mind) 
Suggesting  sudden  danger,  lone  mishap, 
And  suffering  unadministered — and  death. 
Discoursing  hurriedly,  o'er  moonlight  hills 
The  bridal  guests  have  passed — and  every  glen 
Echoes  with  wonderment  that  one  so  true 
Should  break  his  troth  and  fail  the  festival 
Of  Plighted  Love  so  hardly  earned  by  toil, 
And  cheered  by  hopes  that  sanctify  the  heart. 

"  Tomorrow  will  reveal !" — Tomorrow  comes  1 
33 


258  THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH. 

It  comes  in  summer  glory,  like  a  bride 
In  the  rich  bloom  of  beauty  and  of  hope, 
Or  a  high  hearted  king  of  orient  Inde, 
O'er  the  blue  swelling  seas,  for  few  brief  days 
Sunny  and  tranquil  like  the  human  heart, 
And  o'er  the  cedar  forests  and  oak  woods 
Of  the  proud  mountains  of  Dalecarlia,  veiled 
In  floating  mist  or  glistening  with  young  dew. 
From  the  harmonious  waters  of  all  streams 
The  morning  vapour  curls  and  seems  to  rise 
In  forms  of  fairhaired  dryads,  as  of  old, 
Along  Permessus'  banks,  the  daughters  nine 
Of  wise  Mnemosyne,  when  they  had  drank 
The  holy  dew  amid  the  fountain  vale, 
Together  clomb  the  hill  of  Helicon. 
The  songbirds  lift  their  voices  all  around, 
The  violets  and  hyacinths  unveil 
The  pictured  bosoms  of  their  virgin  buds, 
The  sweet  and  racy  air  becomes  a  bliss 
To  the  free  organs  of  the  heart,  and  heaven 
Bends  in  more  beautiful  arcades  and  seems 
Swelling  far  up,  beyond  all  taint  of  earth, 
In  azure  vastness,  on  whose  shadowy  edge 
Hyperion  pours  the  glories  of  his  brow. 

How  felt  Luzelia  ?     Moonlight  unto  her, 
Through  the  void  watches  of  the  night,  had  been 
A  sole  companion,  and  her  tossing  thoughts, 
Like  stormy  waters,  nameless  leagues  from  land, 
Rolled  through  the  darkened  boundlessness  of  mind 
Sounding  a  terrible  music  to  her  heart. 
Like  one  lone  palm  amid  a  sea  of  sands, 
She  stood  in  the  pale  beauty  of  the  moon, 
Whose  mellow  light  around  her  softly  stole 
With  a  pervading  blessedness,  that  fell 
Upon  her  fainting  spirit  with  a  sense 
Of  still  and  solemn  faith.     Thou  blessed  Light ! 
Held  holy  in  all  times — in  every  clime — 
Among  all  people ;  on  the  mourner's  brow 
Thou  pourest  consolation  and  dost  woo 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH.  259 

Grief  from  its  darkened  citadel  and  change 

The  wormwood  of  the  heart  to  soothing  balm. 

And,  all  unconsciously,  Luzelia  blessed 

Thy  ministrations,  Dian  !  while  she  gazed 

On  the  deep  shadows  of  the  woodi,  the  glow 

And  gloom  of  changing  forest  streams,  and  rocks 

Abrupt  and  massy,  on  whose  jutting  crags 

The  transitory  beams  streamed  like  a  shower 

Of  molten  pearls;  though,  all  the  lingering  night, 

The  image  of  no  human  form  appeared 

To  gladden  the  fixed  eye  or  charm  away 

Perilous  thoughts  inurned  ;  but  there  she  stood, 

Poor  girl !  stunned,  dumb,  and  breathless,  like  the  work 

Of  some  most  perfect  sculptor,  Phidias  old, 

Myron,  Praxiteles  ;  her  ear  was  wrought 

To  agony's  intensity  of  sound, 

And  oft  her  own  deep  pulses  or  the  stir 

Of  leaves  came  o'er  her  ITke  the  echo  faint 

Of  far  off  footsteps  hurrying  o'er  the  dale. 

Leoni  came  not — yet  she  questioned  not 

The  faith  well  known  for  years  and  deeply  tried, 

And  thus  she  shunn'd  the  strongest  agony 

That  Love  can  feel — the  faithlessness  of  one 

Deeply  beloved,  who  robs  the  heart  of  heaven. 

Her  mother — wasted,  palsystricken,  old, 

A  leafless  tree  that  moaned  in  every  wind, 

Missed  not  Luzelia's  well  accustomed  voice 

Upon  the  morn,  nor  lacked  her  common  aid, 

Nor  marked  she,  in  the  oblivion  of  her  age, 

The  pale  brow  and  unrested  eye,  and  tones 

Faltering  and  low,  of  her  most  priceless  child, 

Who  shrined  her  unimagined  fearfulness 

And  desolation  in  her  fondest  heart, 

And  held  alike  her  constancy  of  love 

And  duty  to  the  helpless.     Crowds  went  forth 

O'er  vale  and  hill,  and  mountain  echoes  bore 

Leoni's  name  through  every  darkened  wood  ! 

No  answer  came.     They  questioned  man  and  child  ;' ' 

All  knew,  but  none  had  seen  him  since  the  eve 


260  THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH. 

Appointed  for  his  bridal.     Far  and  wide 

Luzelia  wandered  and  her  voice  went  up 

On  every  breeze ;  no  answering  voice  was  heard. 

Brief  summer,  briefer  autumn  passed,  all  streams 

Vanished  before  the  universal  frost, 

That  silently,  with  a  resistless  power, 

Suspended  life ;  on  every  shaggy  cliff 

The  beaded  hail  hung  like  a  robe  of  gems 

Beneath  the  gleaming  glimpses  of  the  sun 

Or  moon,  when  from  her  rolling  rack  she  flung 

A  flood  of  phantom  light ;  on  every  thatch 

Icicles,  like  Doric  pillars,  in  the  light 

Of  woodfires,  streaming  through  the  lattice,  glowed, 

And  drifted  cones  of  snow  among  the  boughs 

Of  thickleaved  pines  perennial  everywhere 

Lay  deeply — pallid  white  above  rich  green — 

Hoar  winter  in  the  arms  of  virgin  spring — 

Death  on  the  bosom  of  undying  Life ! 

But  the  long  season  of  chill'd  verdure  passed, 

And  desolating  winds  to  farthest  North, 

To  Arctic  seas,  Spitzbergen  and  the  Isles 

Of  everlasting  iciness,  with  moans, 

Departed  at  the  hest  of  maymorn  suns. 

Yet  came  no  tidings  of  the  lost,  the  loved, 

And  poor  Luzelia  lingered  o'er  the  looks, 

The  smiles,  the  tender  words,  the  oft  sealed  vow — 

The  last  of  lost  Leoni — and  the  dreams 

Of  years  that  had  a  fearful  waking  now, 

And  broken  images  of  early  love, 

Till  her  whole  heart  gushed  out  and  she  would  fain 

Have  flown  to  the  lone  wilderness  and  died 

Where  last  he  might  have  pressed  the  moss  or  leaves. 

'T  is  easy  to  resign  the  breaking  heart 
On  passion's  altar ;  't  is  an  angel's  task 
To  live  when  life  hath  ceased  to  be  a  joy, 
Buffet  the  billows  of  despairing  thoughts, 
Baffle  disguised  temptation,  and  bear  up 
Beneath  a  burden  martvrs  never  bore, 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH.  261 

Sickness  of  soul,  that  o'er  earth's  joyance  throws 

The  lurid  hue  of  a  distempered  rnind, 

And  sergeclad  poverty,  whose  daily  bread 

Unceasing  labour  only  can  procure. 

These;  in  the  voiceless  anguish  of  a  heart 

Full  of  intensest  feeling,  and  a  soul 

Haunted  by  wild  imaginations,  dim, 

Wavering  and  vasty  as  the  countless  forms 

On  Shetland  Skerries  when  the  storm  is  up, 

With  meekness  and  a  patient  tenderness, 

An  earnest  and  heartgushing  Love,  that  fell 

Upon  her  mother's  darkened  sympathy, 

Like  a  skill'd  leech's  welltimed  liniment 

Upon  a  warrior's  wound — sublimely,  these 

Luzelia  bore  through  months  of  vague  belief 

Of  undetermined  ill ;  and  she  could  smile 

Sometimes,  and  feel  the  burden  from  her  heart 

Lifted  by  an  invisible  power  awhile, 

And  then  her  voice,  narrating  legends  old 

Of  Doffrafield,  put  on  a  cheerfulness 

That  sent  its  sunlight  through  her  mother's  heart. 

Then  the  pale  palsied  pilgrim  would  look  up 

And  bless  her  daughter  with  a  trembling  hand, 

And  her  dimmed  eyes  were  lighted  up  with  fires 

From  the  altar  of  her  youth,  and  her  weak  voice 

Came  o'er  Luzelia  like  a  benison 

From  the  far  world  on  whose  veiled  shore  she  stood. 

So  Time  passed  on,  and  the  poor  heartsick  girl 
Alone  remembered  lost  Leoni  now. 
Friendship  is  but  the  outward  foil  of  men, 
The  fleecy  foam  emitted  from  life's  sea, 
Seen  only  in  the  swirling  wake,  the  barque 
In  its  fair  voyage  leaves  behind ;  but  Love, 
(Not  the  gross  passion  of  the  buskin'd  stage, 
The  glare  of  eyes,  the  bubble  of  blown  cheeks, 
The  start,  the  feign'd  devotion  and  wild  speech) 
Love  lingers  by  the  shrine  when  cold  and  dark 
And  offers  up  its  orisons  the  same ; 
Love  clings  unto  the  wreck  when  wildest  winds 


262  THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH. 

Sweep  darkest  clouds  before  them  and  the  voice 
Of  upturned  ocean  wails  like  dying  men  : 
And,  more  than  all,  Love,  in  the  hourly  cares 
And  deep  anxieties  of  humble  life, 
To  household  hearth  and  board  and  pallet  bed 
Bears  the  most  hallowed  memory  of  the  lost, 
The  bliss  of  agony,  the  chastened  woe 
Of  an  all  feeling  and  benignant  heart. 

'T  was  winter  midnight,  and  Luzelia  sat 

Beside  the  deathbed  of  her  mother,  last 

Of  all  her  kindred;  o'er  the  pallet  fell 

The  wavering  rushlight  and  the  moss  roofed  cot 

Within  was  silent,  save  when  feeble  moans, 

Like  spirit  whispers  low,  stole  from  a  heart 

Too  wasted  now  to  bear  much  agony. 

Without,  the  winds  were  loud,  and  mount  and  vale 

Through  all  their  vast  and  solemn  solitudes 

Replied  to  the  wild  spirit  of  the  storm ; 

And  the  cold  moon  through  huddled  clouds  appeared 

Fitful  and  ghostlike ;  and  the  ravining  wolf 

Yelled  in  the  agony  of  famishing 

From  perpendicular  rocks,  whence  caverns  yawned 

Below,  and  glaciers  hung  on  all  above. 

Luzelia  watched  and  wept  not  in  the  depth 

Of  visible  desolation ;  when  she  lost 

Leoni,  the  deep  wellsprings  of  her  heart 

Dried  up,  and  left  her  like  a  branching  palm 

Amid  the  Desert ;  she  had  lent  her  shade 

To  a  poor  wayworn  pilgrim  who  had  borne 

The  burden  and  the  heat  of  many  a  day, 

And  now  beneath  the  shadow  of  her  leaves, 

And  on  the  bosom  of  her  solitude, 

That  pilgrim  sunk  to  sleep — earth's  silent  sleep — 

With  her  deep  vein'd  and  bony  hand  upon 

Luzelia's  bow'd  head  resting ;  and  the  words, 

Last  heard  from  her  pale  lips,  were  words  of  peace 

And  blessing;  and  her  parting  breath  went  forth 

In  the  cold  kiss  of  death  !     Luzelia  knelt 

Beside  the  deathbed  and  her  heart  rose  up 


\ 
THE   TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH.  263 

In  prayer,  and  in  her  loneliness  and  grief 
Strength  was  vouchsafed  unto  her  to  compose 
The  dead  for  burial.     And  she  slept  that  night ! 

The  yearning  pathos  of  the  heart  bereaved 

Time  mellows  in  its  silent  soothing  lapse, 

And  deepest  ills  and  worst  privations  lose 

The  lurid  hue  and  leaden  heaviness, 

The  rnazy  and  bewildering  dream  of  woe. 

Not  the  sun's  shadows  on  the  dial's  disk, 

But  the  mind's  thoughts  upon  the  busy  brain 

Mete  out  o'erpassing  periods  ;  hours  of  grief 

No  famed  clepsydra  ever  measured  well, 

Nor  modern  instrument ;  deserted  life 

Beneath  thatch'd  cottage  on  the  drearest  marge 

Of  bosky  dell,  o'erpillar'd  by  wild  rocks, 

And  bordered  round  by  furze  and  fern  and  gorse 

And  matted  briers  and  tangled  underwood, 

Lingers  and  lingers  like  a  new  made  bride 

Beside  the  deathbed  of  her  love's  best  lord. 

But  years,  and  the  deep  thoughts  they  bring  with  them, 

Tame  down  the  spirit  as  they  bow  the  frame, 

And  leave  behind  affections  purified 

Though  undiminished  in  their  heartfelt  power — 

Fervent  though  calm — deep  like  the  stillest  stream, 

A  sealed  up  fountain  brimming  with  the  thoughts 

That  made  earth  paradise  in  happier  days. 

Precept  and  sentiment  are  idle  things, 

And  so  is  love's  romance  in  sickly  tales 

Of  aromatic  fabulists,  whose  sighs 

Are  frequent  as  the  free  unchartered  air. 

But  just  example,  in  all  ways  of  life, 

Is  as  a  visible  divinity, 

That  o'er  all  minds  hath  power  and  in  all  hearts 

Resteth,  as  rivers,  gliding  through  green  meads, 

Where  cowslips  blossom,  rest  in  sunny  seas. — 

Luzelia's  mild,  dim,  melancholy  smile, 

And  quiet  step  and  soft  though  faded  eye, 

And  mellow  voice  heard  in  her  loneliness, 


264  THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH. 

And  chariness  of  mind  and  ready  hand 

In  the  acquittance  of  kind  offices, 

Had  touched,  as  with  the  altar  fire  of  love, 

All  hearts  that  yearned  for  kindred  sympathies 

And  blest  affiance  in  their  rugged  path. 

And  suiters,  such  as  fathers  could  approve, 

Many  and  oft  appeared — were  mildly  heard — 

And  went  their  way,  not  scorned  though  unreceived, 

Less  in  pride's  anger  than  in  mournfulness  ; 

For  still  she  was  the  tomb  lamp  of  the  dead, 

Keeping  lone  watch  o'er  buried  memories, 

And  ne'er  ungracious  in  a  thought  or  speech 

Save  when  they  named  Leoni  doubtfully. 

There  were  not  wanting  tongues  in  that  wild  land, 

As  everywhere,  to  babble  of  the  dead 

And  wrong  the  living,  and  full  oft  their  shafts 

Pierced  lone  Luzelia's  bosom  to  the  core. 

The  Maiden's  lot  was  dark,  yet  all  was  peace 

Within  her  humble  cot,  and  cheerfulness 

Around  it,  for  the  spirit,  that,  of  old, 

Hallowed  its  hearth,  had  left  a  blessing  there, 

A  delicate  and  music  breathing  Ariel, 

Whose  plumage  never  ruffled,  sun  or  storm. 

It  was  the  Miners'  Holiday  ;  and  joy 

Sent  forth  the  voice  of  lustihood — the  sound 

Of  Scandinavian  harps  o'er  all  the  hill ; 

And  prouder  merriment  was  never  heard 

E'en  in  Valhalla's  azure  palaces 

When  the  Valkyriur,  in  rainbow  paths, 

Usher  young  fallen  heroes  to  their  home. 

Luzelia  threw  her  cheeriness  of  heart 

O'er  Toil's  sole  yearly  festival,  and  sung 

A  song  that  had  a  touch  of  gladness  in  't, 

Though,  as  she  sang,  she  could  not  choose  but  think 

How  lost  Leoni  at  such  time  stood  up 

Beautiful  as  Balder — sungod — in  his  pride. 

Then  filled  her  faded  eyes,  and  with  much  thanks, 

Up  from  the  wooded  dell  the  Miners  passed. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  TROTH.  265 

Evening  drew  on,  and  at  her  cottage  door 
Luzelia  rested,  sadder  far  than  wont, 
(Revel  and  mirth  are  ministers  of  woe 
To  the  sick  heart,  that  enters  not  their  haunt,) 
When  down  the  shelvy  rock  a  Miner  leapt 
Wildly,  and  with  dark  words  of  strange  import 
Led  her  along  the  precipice,  and  up 
Steep  forest  paths,  to  a  deserted  lode, 
Round  whose  black  marge  a  huddled  crowd  had  met. 
"  'T  is  strange  !"  said  one.  "  This  mine  hath  not  been  wrought 
"  For  years,  but  left  to  goblins  and  blind  owls. 
"  I  well  remember  (I  was  then  a  boy) 
"  When  the  old  Dane— a  hoary  locust  left 
"  Out  of  the  slaughtered  host — came  one  bright  morn 
"  And  bade  us  lift  the  ladders  from  the  lode, 
"  And  gash  the  pillars  of  the  roof  and  leave 
"  The  plundered  hell  to  bats — their  rightful  home. 
"  Well,  here  this  body  of  stone  that  once  was  flesh, 
("  JT  is  petrified  'mong  minerals  of  the  mine) 
"  In  his  blind  hurry  to  the  bridal  feast — 
"  'T  was  dark  as  Hela — fell  and  died  unknown  !" 
"  Give  way,  it  is  Luzelia  !"  every  eye 
Fastened  upon  her  face,  as  she  drew  near, 
And  every  lip  was  mute  ;  one  moment  passed 
Of  deep,  soul  piercing  earnestness  of  gaze, 
Then  her  brow  lightened,  and  her  features  glowed 
With  all  the  beauty  of  her  virgin  youth, 
And  her  breast  heaved  in  panting  sobs, — and  then 
She  fell  upon  the  blackened  corse  and  cried — 
"  Leoni !  't  is  Leoni !  said  I  not 
"  He  kept  his  Troth  till  death  ?  Oh,  't  is  not  Death  ! 
"  It  gives  me  life,  Leoni !  no,  not  Death  !" 
****** 

— In  the  green  dell  there  is  a  ruined  hut, 
And  on  the  margin  of  that  cold  dark  mine 
A  wide  grave  with  a  rudely  graven  stone, 
That  bears  Luzelia's  and  Leoni's  name. 


34 


MUSIC  AMALGAMATED. 


THERE  's  music  in  the  hurricane, 

And  in  the  catgut's  scrubbing; 
Where  slayers  thunder  o'er  the  slain, 

Where  democrats  are  drubbing  ; 
There  's  music  in  the  boiler's  hiss, 

When  steamers  race  for  glory, 
And  in  the  nigger's  glorious  kiss, 

With  tyrant  blood  all  gory. 

There  's  music  in  the  midnight  wreck, 

'Tween  tempests,  rocks  and  billows, 
When  death  is  master  of  the  deck, 

And  reefs  are  dead  men's  pillows  ; 
There  's  music  in  the  windstirr'd  grass, 

In  the  whispering  leaves  of  spring, 
In  martial  drum,  and  braying  ass, 

And  pugilistic  ring. 

There  's  music  in  the  glimmering  stream 

'Mid  woods,  flowers,  verdure  flowing, 
And  in  the  poet's  noontide  dream, 

Where  phantom  fame  comes  glowing; 
There  ?s  music  to  the  fairy's  ear 

In  shadows,  dews,  and  bubbles, 
And  to  old  maidens,  when  they  hear 

The  voice  of  wedlock's  troubles. 

There  's  music  in  the  deathbell,  tolling 
The  fair  and  good  to  heaven, 

On  breezy  hill  and  landscape  rolling, 
In  twilight,  morn  or  even  ; 


MUSIC  AMALGAMATED.  267 


There  's  music  in  the  streets  where  imps 

Of  colours  all  assemble, 
And  in  the  deep,  where  sprats  and  shrimps 
Before  behemoth  tremble. 

There  's  music  in  the  bullfrog's  croak, 

When  sunset  gilds  the  pond, 
And  in  the  spoil'd  child's  treble  note, 

Commanding  mothers  fond  ; 
There  's  music  in  the  feline  chorus 

On  dark  piazzas  mewed — 
When  arm'd  moschetoes  circle  o'er  us, — 

And  roistering  rakes  are  slued. 

There  's  music  in  the  Mohawk  whoop, 

In  the  howl  of  pongoes  praying, 
In  plundered  camp  and  conquered  coop, 

And  herds  of  jackals  straying; 
There  's  music  in  the  crashing  skies, 

And  in  the  virgin's  sigh, 
In  gallant  hearts,  and  starlight  eyes, — 

When  all  are  born  or  die. 

There  's  music  in  the  whispered  word 

Through  hosts,  war-waiting,  sent ; 
Who,  by  old  victories  thrill'd  and  stirr'd, 

Watch  the  sunkindled  firmament ! 
There  's  music  in  the  click  of  gun, 

Sword  flash  and  bayonet  gleam, 
When  battle  heralds  havoc's  sun, 

And  purples  every  stream. 

There  's  music  in  the  bagpipe's  drone, 

In  sweet  M'Henry's  verses; 
In  ballroom  shuffle,  dungeon  groan, 

And  Conrad's  tragic  curses  ; 
There  's  music  on  the  mount,  or  moor, 

In  ocean,  sky  or  cave, 
With  queen  or  hoyden,  a  king  or  boor, 

The  autocrat  or  slave. 


268  THANKSGIVING. 

Niagara  thunders  music  down, 

The  earthquake  thunders  up  ; 
Volcanoes  shout  o'er  buried  town, 

The  plague,  o'er  poison  cup  ; 
The  tempest  and  the  lightning  sing — 

Stars,  meteors,  flowers — earth,  heaven — 
Music  to  every  human  thing, 

Save  modern  bards,  is  given  ! 


THANKSGIVING. 


WHEN  young  Time  sung  in  Eden's  bower, 
And  angels  echoed  back  his  strain, 
Ere  sin  mildewed  each  morning  flower 
Of  hope,  and  pleasure  died  in  pain, 
Each  love-winged  thought  that  rose  on  high 
Was  man's  melodious  prayer  of  praise, 
And  happy  hearts  threw  o'er  the  sky 
Blessings,  as  flowed  the  elder  days, 
While  Heaven  benignly  smiled  and  breathed  the  grateful  lays, 

No  seasons,  then,  by  power  assigned, 
Restricted  songs  of  holy  praise, 
For  man's  pure  heart  and  pious  mind 
Threw  glory  o'er  life's  younger  days  ; 
But,  his  high  spirit  higher  soaring, 
He  knowledge  bought,  and  was  unblest ; 
And,  when  he  should  have  been  adoring, 
Lost  Eden — love's  abode  of  rest, 
And  wandered  forth  o'er  earth,  an  exile  sore  distrest. 


THANKSGIVING.  269 

There  was  a  jubilee  in  Heaven, 
When  man  to  being  sprung,  and  raised 
His  soul  in  praise  for  blessings  given, 
The  image  of  the  GOD  he  praised  ; 
And  there  are  songs  of  glory  swelling 
O'er  Heaven,  e'en  in  these  sinning  days, 
When  man  laments  his  long  lost  dwelling, 
Yet  for  earth's  joys  chants  hymns  of  praise, 
And  sings  in  Eden's  speech,  though  lost  to  Eden's  ways. 

For  sunny  skies  and  balmy  showers, 
And  mellow  airs,  and  cheerful  health, 
And  bloomy  meads  and  dales  of  flowers, 
And  fields  of  beauty  rife  with  wealth, 
And  still  green  vales  and  wooded  hills, 
And  Plenty  smiling  o'er  each  home, 
Whose  rose-lipped  love  with  odour  fills, 
And  sweet  Content,  who  scorns  to  roam ; 
For  blessings  such  as  these,  let  glad  Thanksgiving  come. 

No  pestilence  hath  stalked  abroad, 
And  thrown  o'er  bliss  the  funeral  pall ; 
No  sword  of  crime-avenging  GOD 
Hath  marred  man's  toil-won  festival ; 
His  earthquake  voice  hath  not  been  heard 
Amid  the  cheerful  mirth  of  men  ; 
The  soul  in  peace  hath  drank  His  Word, 
And  Life  found  joy  in  wold  and  glen, 
And  Love  crowned  every  bliss  again — and  yet  again. 


ANCIENT  WORSHIP. 


To  me  less  hallowed,  high  and  awful  seem 

The  rites  and  rituals  of  these  our  days, 

When  hollow  forms  and  ceremonies  hide 

Hearts  stained  by  guile,  that  murmur  while  they  praise, 

And  lip  humility  and  swell  with  pride, 

Whose  faith  is  false  as  youth's  fantastic  dream, 

Than  that  pure  worship  of  the  olden  Time. 

When  from  the  dim  wild  stream  or  lonely  height 

The  Chaldean  Shepherd  read  the  spheres  sublime, 

The  starry  glories  of  untra veiled  space, 

Where  the  wing'd  seraphim,  in  countless  choirs, 

Hymn'd  the  Immortal  and  his  love  and  grace, 

Blessing  the  spirit,  that  from  earth  aspires, 

To  flowery  realms  of  everlasting  light. 

In  the  far  orient  climes  of  living  bloom, 

Where  rosy  earth  and  starry  heaven  unite, 

How  blest  the  luxuries  of  solemn  thought, 

The  dreams  and  oracles,  that,  born  of  night, 

O'er  the  rapt  spirit  breathed  and  in  it  wrought 

A  deep  and  sacred  triumph  o'er  the  tomb — 

The  tomb,  that  then  knew  not  the  searching  light 

Of  Shiloh's  holy,  all  atoning  srnile  ! 

While  round  him  slept  his  flocks,  from  some  far  height 

The  solitary  watcher  gazed  afar 

On  the  vast  mysteries,  that  rolled  above, 

And  saw  in  every  bright  revolving  star 

Beauty  of  holiness  and  peace  and  love, 

That  soothed  and  sanctified  his  mortal  toil. 

Then  came  the  morn  and  evening  offerings 
Of  the  first  fruits  upon  the  forest  shrine — 
A  simple  sacrifice  of  reverent  praise 
And  humble  heart  and  gratitude  divine. 


ANCIENT  WORSHIP.  271 

Oh,  how  unlike  these  proud  corrupted  days, 

When  dark  hypocrisy  in  triumph  brings 

Its  gifts,  and  bids  high  heaven  behold  the  deed  ! 

In  the  young  ages  of  the  earthly  Life, 

The  husbandman  accounted  riot  his  seed 

Fruitful  until  his  sacrifice  was  done ; 

The  warrior  prayed  before  the  ark,  ere  war; 

The  king,  ere  judgement ;  and  beneath  the  sun, 

Love,  prayer  and  praise  were  wafted  from  afar, 

And  every  heart  with  holy  hope  was  rife. 

Not  idle  words  from  faithless  tongues  alone, 
But  trying  deeds,  these  proved  the  hearts  of  men  : 
A  Father  offered  up  the  world's  Young  Heir ! 
And  incense  rose  from  many  a  lonely  glen, 
When  daggered  danger  stood  beside  despair, 
And  hope  did  fail,  and  succour  there  seem'd  none. 
But  trials  lost  their  bitterness  when  Earth 
Seemed  to  the  true  the  golden  gate  of  Heaven, 
And  angel  shapes  from  the  blue  sky  came  forth 
And  listened  to  man's  all  confiding  prayer ; 
For  VIRTUE  had  a  refuge,  and  the  heart, 
That  trusted,  never  sank  into  despair, 
As  it  had  found  that  higher,  better  part 
To  gentle,  generous,  noble  spirits  given. 

Man  with  his  Monarch  and  his  Maker  held 
Communion  in  the  elder  years  of  love, 
And  throned  seraphim  unsinning  kept 
Guard  o'er  the  son  of  earth  in  every  grove, 
Whether  he  toiled  a  field,  or  safely  slept 
Lone  in  the  branching  melancholy  weald. 
And  Truth  was  then  the  sovereign  of  the  mind, 
And  Charity  man's  best  and  only  creed, 
And  kindly  offices  true  hearts  could  bind 
And  social  men,  more  strongly  than  the  stern 
And  blasting  laws  of  these  our  dungeon  days. 
Ah  !  man  must  live  his  threescore  years  to  learn 
Earth  is  corrupt  in  all  its  countless  ways, 
And  evil  Knowledge  is  his  bitter  meed. 


272  SONNET. 

Those  solemn,  simple,  hallowed  days  are  gone, 
The  Glory  ?s  vanished  from  the  Cherubim, 
And  Shrines  and  Oracles  have  passed  away  ! 
But,  oh,  I  love  to  gaze  upon  the  dim 
And  shadowy  beauty  of  that  elder  day 
In  saddened  silence  mid  the  wood  alone, 
And  image  the  old  Partriarch  by  his  shrine 
Kindling  amidst  the  forest  his  pure  fire 
On  sacrificial  fruits  and  clustering  vine  ; 
For  unto  me  such  lonely  worship  brings 
Higher  and  holier  thoughts  than  our  proud  forms 
Of  pomp  mid  throngs  whose  varied  aspect  flings 
The  world's  cold  shade  o'er  every  prayer,  that  warms 
And  bids  the  heart  in  holy  hope  aspire. 


SONNET. 


0  give  me  music,  for  my  soul  is  fainting ! 
Not  the  gay  strains  of  laughter-loving  mirth, 
But  those  deep  notes  of  feeling  at  whose  birth 
The  heart  o'erflows  with  rapture  past  all  paintfng  ! 
Blend,  O  Musician  !  every  tender  thing 

In  Heaven  and  earth  with  thy  low  murmuring  strain, 

Till  my  sad  thoughts  in  silence  turn  again 

To  the  fresh  fragrance  of  life's  flowering  spring  ! 

1  ?m  tired  and  sick  of  folly  and  the  mad 
Uproar  of  merriment,  and  all  the  vain 
Laughter  and  babbling  that  around  me  reign — 
The  mean  delights  of  meaner  things  that  had 
Never  a  noble  thought.     Oh,  I  would  hear 
Such  music  as  waits  on  the  dying  year 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LOST. 


WHEN  through  the  dimness  of  the  lonely  night 

Silence  leans  listening  from  the  pale  blue  sky, 
Amid  the  mysteries  of  the  shadowy  light 
Of  cypress  groves  that  in  the  low  winds  sigh, 
The  shade  of  Death  comes  o'er  my  heart, 

Like  a  dim  dream  of  summer  even, 
And  then  I  feel  I  could  depart, 

Like  a  sunbright  cloud  from  the  brow  of  heaven ! 
Without  a  sigh,  without  a  fear, 
Without  a  last  lamenting  tear, 
A  doubt  to  dim  my  spirit's  bloom, 
Or  one  lone  shadow  from  the  night  of  doom  ! 

Then  Memory  lingers  o'er  departed  hours, 

When  Love,  unstained  by  human  passion,  came, 
Like  starlight  stealing  through  Arabian  bowers, 
The  Spirit-Herald  of  a  deathless  fame  ! 
But  those  are  hours  of  sadness  now, 

Of  vain  repining  and  regret, 
For  Hope's  fair  sun  hath  left  my  brow — 
The  darkened  light  of  love  hath  set ! 
Sweet  MaryJ  like  a  tender  dream, 
A  shadow  on  the  rippling  stream, 
Thou  liv'st  alone  in  my  clouded  brain, 
The  vision  of  blest  days  that  cannot  dawn  again  ! 

I  roam  to  seek  thee  in  the  tufted  grove, 

The  dim  green  wood,  where  purls  that  lonely  stream, 
Where  erst,  in  commune  high,  we  loved  to  rove, 
Wrapt  in  the  glories  of  Love's  morning  dream  ! 
35 


274  THE  LAY  OF  THE  LOST. 

Beneath  thy  bower,  in  starry  gloom, 

1  hear  thy  voice,  whose  music  flows — 
— Oh  !  only  from  the  midnight  tomb ! 

Like  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  morning  rose ! 
Chilled  to  the  heart,  I  wake  to  weep, 
And  sigh,  alone,  once  more  to  sleep, 
That  Illusion  may  weave  her  mystic  spell 
Round  the  lone  heart  that  hears  the  eternal  knell ! 

Friends  of  my  orphan  youth,  too  well  beloved  ! 

The  true  in  heart,  the  tried  in  faith,  the  wise — 
Ye,  wanting  not,  when  long  and  deeply  proved, 
In  ought  that  breathes  and  blossoms  in  the  skies ! — 
I  look  around,  but  where  are  they? 

Like  moonlight  on  the  mountain,  gone, 
Blest  spirits  !  from  their  strife  of  day 

Up  to  their  home  round  heaven's  high  throne  ! 
The  pale  cold  stars  smile  on  the  scene 
Where  life  and  hope  and  joy  have  been, 
While  lowly  they  slumber,  unsought,  unknown  ! 
Beneath  the  rank  green  turf  and  sculptured  stone. 

Fain  would  my  thought  in  grief  return  to  thee, 
Lost  lovely  One  !  thou  twinborn  of  my  soul ! 
Thy  seraph  smile,  thy  fawnlike  step  I  see, 
Thy  fair  hair  streams,  thy  blue  eyes  laughing  roll ! 
Oh  !  thou  art  here  in  all  thy  bloom, 

And  blessedness  of  heavenly  love — 
— Hark !  that  low  voice  as  from  the  tomb  ! 
That  moaning  like  the  widowed  dove ! 
Death's  shadow  slumbers  in  her  eyes, 
Cold,  pale  and  still  the  victim  lies, 
Her  spirit  parts  like  an  autumn  even, 
Her  brow  reveals  the  eternal  light  of  heaven  ! 

The  beauty  and  the  bliss  of  days  gone  by 
Deepen  the  darkness  of  the  early  doom, 

That  o'er  the  glory  of  my  summer  sky 
Rolls  from  the  deep  recesses  of  the  tomb; 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LOST.  275 

Imagination's  fairy  dreams, 

The  bloom  of  beauty  in  the  mind, 
The  blush  of  music  breathing  streams, 

Vanish— and  leave  reality  behind  ! 
I  see  no  more  the  shapes  of  air, 

Nymphs,  dryads,  oreads — augel  things! 
That  threw  abroad  their  golden  hair, 

And  fann'd  the  blue  heaven  with  radiant  wings! 
They  are  gone  from  me  now*, 
Like  the  stars  from  the  brow 
Of  the  forest-crown'd  hill,  in  the  still  of  night — 
And  sullen  sinks  the  blaze  of  all  that  magic  light. 

Cold  on  my  shuddering  soul  the  echoes  fall 

Of  voices  heard  when  every  breath  was  joy  : 
Sere  fall  the  leaves  of  youth's  green  coronal 

Wreathed  when  high  hopes  were  lighted  at  the  sky  ! 
Yet,  like  Tiresias — prophet  old, 

Or  him — the  Samian  sage  revered  ! 
My  o'erfraught  bosom  still  may  hold 

The  power  and  pride  of  things  unfeared, 
And  though  my  song  may  never  be 
What  it  had  been  in  days  more  free, 
Yet  its  voice  may  soar  above  the  grave, 
Like  low  prophetic  notes  from  old  Trophonius'  cave. 

I  could  lie  down  on  earth's  green  breast  and  weep 

This  weary,  faint  and  hopeless  life  away, 
And  sink,  at  last,  in  death's  undreaming  sleep, 
Like  a  fair  child,  tired  of  his  noontide  play  ; 
For  I  have  born  and  still  must  bear 

The  burden  of  a  heart  that  feels 
To  deeply  for  the  things  that  are — 
A  world  that  tortures  or  anneals ! 

And  I  would  pass  beyond  their  power, 
Beyond  the  triumph  of  an  hour, 
Where  my  heart  might  catch  the  inspiring  strain 
Of  bliss  in  worlds  beyond  the  power  of  human  pain! 


NIGHTDREAMS. 


OH,  I  do  love  thee,  Night ! 
When  twilight  dews  descend, 
And  lights  and  shadows  blend, 
And  sweet-voiced  birds  their  tender  vespers  sing, 
Then  furl  in  sleep  the  weary  wing, 
Amid  the  starlight  grove, 
And  dream  in  song  of  love  ; 
While  silence  sleeps  around, 
Save  when  the  whispering  flowers 
Breathe  forth  a  rosy  sound, 
Like  memory  sighing  o'er  lamented  hours — 
Oh  !  I  do  love  thee,  Night ! 

But  most  I  love  thee,  Night ! 

That  thou  dost  ever  bring, 

Upon  thy  dewy  wing, 
The  voice,  the  image  of  my  lady-love, 

The  charm  of  hall  and  grove, 

The  joy  of  other  years, 

The  sunlight  of  my  tears, 

My  lost,  yet  worshipped  heaven, 

Possessed  no  more  below — 
For  one  brief  hour  of  rapture  given — 
Then  snatched  away  from  vainly  wailing  woe, 

For  this  I  love  thee,  Night ! 

With  thee  I  can  forget, 
The  sunny  youth  has  flown, 
Love,  hope  and  rapture  gone, 
That  desolation  watches  round  the  bowers 
Of  wedded  hearts  in  happier  hours, 
And  all  the  cares  and  fears, 
And  woes  too  deep  for  tears, 


NIGHT-DREAMS.  277 


And  anguish  and  despair, 
That  will  not  cease,  that  cannot  part, 

It  hath  been  mine  to  bear, 
Since  that  wild  rending  of  the  broken  heart — 
I  can  forget  awhile. 


Amid  thy  shadows,  Night ! 

I  see  the  ancient  seers, 

The  prophets  gray  with  years, 

The  patriarchs  reigning  o'er  the  people  blest ; 
Sages  in  antique  stole  and  vest, 
And  bards,  whose  lays  of  love 

Were  heard  in  Ida's  wood  and  Daphne's  grove, 
And  all  the  high  and  holy  ones, 
Whose  brows  bend  o'er  us  in  our  dreams, 
Like  spirits  o'er  elysium's  streams, 
Who  leave  awhile  their  starry  thrones, 

And  fill  our  souls  with  heaven's  celestial  gleams. 
Thy  shades  are  living,  Night ! 

Dreams  come  of  thee,  sweet  Night ! 
Bright  visions  float  around  the  brain 
Of  days  that  cannot  dawn  again, 
And  hope  deluded  smiles  mid  banished  bliss  ! 
Pale  lips  meet  in  a  long,  wild  kiss, 
Dissevered  hearts  together  beat, 
And  tearful  eyes  in  rapture  meet, 

And  time  flies  fast  in  joy, 

And  earth  resembles  heaven ! 
— I  start  and  wake  !  o'er  morn's  dark  sky, 
As  o'er  my  heart,  black  clouds  are  wildly  driven — 

Where  are  thy  visions,  Night  ? 

' 
Thou  soothest  sorrow,  Night ! 

I  love  to  watch  thy  skies, 
And  stars  like  tearless  eyes, 

And  pale,  cold  moon,  whose  shivering  light  is  sweet 
To  lovers  when  they  meet, 
By  stream  or  shadowy  wood, 
In  speaking  solitude ; 


278  NIGHT-DREAMS. 

For  thou  dost  seem  to  me, 
Beholding  her,  whose  look 
Was  such  as  those  we  see, 
Bright  Oreads',  in  the  wildwood's  wary  nook — 
When  twilight  tints  the  woods. 

Thou  bringest  peace,  sweet  Night ! 
To  many  a  wasted  heart, 
That  loves  and  sighs  apart ; 
As  when  from  Latmos'  hill  thy  gentle  queen 
Smiled  o'er  the  lovely  scene, 
And  blessed  her  sleeping  lover, 
So  I  do  breathe  my  spirit  now, 
Old  ocean's  stormy  billows  over, 

And  kiss  thy  cheek  and  brow, 
And  wreathe  my  arms  around  thee,  Love  !  as  erst, 
And  fondly  think  that  thou  canst  see 
Thy  lover  bowed,  as  at  the  first, 
Before  the  shrine  of  his  idolatry. 

Joy  waits  upon  thee,  Night ! 

Oh,  I  do  love  thee,  Night ! 

Though  harrowing  thoughts  arise, 

And  unavailing  sighs, 
Yet,  Ellen,  oft  I  muse  on  thee  afar, 

'Neath  Gallia's  evening  star, 

Sweet  love  !  now  doubly  dear, 
For  many  a  lingering  parted  year  ! 
Time  and  distance  and  deep  woe 
Make  thee  lovelier,  dearer,  love  ! 
A  heart  like  mine  can  never  know 
Change,  while  the  stars  we  worshipped,  shine  above. 

Oh,  I  do  love  thee,  night ! 


ABADDON, 


THE 


SPIRIT    OF    DESTRUCTION 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

ABADDON  or  Apollyon,  as  the  name  imports,  is  supposed  to  be  subordinate  only  to 
Satan,  the  adversary  or  tempter,  who  prepares  by  intrigue  and  seduction  for  the  terri 
ble  triumphs  of  the  Fiend  of  Ruin.  The  scenes  subsequent  to  the  flight  of  Abaddon 
have  been  necessarily  selected  for  a  general  illustration  of  the  desolation  and  agony 
which  sin  has  entailed  upon  the  world ;  and  the  purpose  of  the  author  has  been  to 
exhibit,  in  the  strongest  light,  the  malevolence,  the  ingratitude,  and  the  weakness 
of  men;  their  ineptitude  to  choose  the  highest  good;  their  bigoted  perseverance  in 
confirmed  and  habituated  crime;  their  insusceptibility,  in  the  midst  of  desperate  vice, 
to  permanent  impressions  of  virtue;  and  their  ill-fated  adherence  to  all  that  demoral 
izes  the  heart  and  degrades  the  mind.  From  the  vast  empire  of  History  but  few  ex 
amples  could  be  delineated  or  even  named  in  a  poem  so  brief  as  this  ;  but  it  is  trust 
ed  that  enough  have  been  presented  to  unfold  the  melancholy  truth,  that  man  has  too 
often  been  the  dupe  of  fallacy  and  the  slave  of  passion,  devoted  to  the  accomplishment 
of  ambition  or  opulence — the  common  vain  glories  of  life — though  exposed  to  the  pen 
alty  of  popular  execration  and  personal  unhappiness.  Little  relief  has  been  thrown 
upon  the  picture ;  for  the  purest  religion  has  been  for  centuries  made  subservient,  in 
too  many  instances,  to  the  perfidious  policy  of  designing  men,  who  sullied  the  purity 
which  opposed  their  ambition,  or  annihilated  by  ostracism,  the  scaffold,  or  the  pyre, 
the  enlightened  few  of  a  darkened  era. 

True  piety,  averse  from  contention,  and  humble  in  its  lofly  devotion,  exerts  but  lit 
tle  influence  over  the  affluent  and  the  worldly.  The  Spirit  of  Love  breathes  over  the 
agitated  waters,  but  seldom  hushes  their  commotion ;  the  rainbow  of  beauty  only 
adorns  the  storm-cloud  which  it  cannot  disperse. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION. 


WHERE  the  wild  darkness  of  the  nether  world 
Fell  with  its  ghastliest  grandeur,  and  vast  clouds 
Trailed  o'er  the  panting  firmament,  and  hung 
Like  sworded  ministers  of  vengeance,  low 
Upon  the  dismal,  thick,  and  deadly  air, 
ABADDON  stood  companionless,  and  wrapt 
In  wasting  thought — a  pyramid  of  mind 
On  the  dark  desert  of  Despair !     Alone 
He  stood,  and  his  broad  shadow  quivered  o'er 
The  jagged  and  tumultuary  clouds, 
Where  living  blackness  struggled  with  the  glare 
Thrown  from  the  fierce  volcano's  lava  breast, 
With  even  a  deeper  gloom ;  for  moral  guilt 
Transcends  the  tempest's  terror  and  the  wreck 
Of  warring  elements,  and  brands  its  curse 
Upon  the  tortured  spirit,  f  om  its  throne 
Hurled  down,  and  doom'd  to  agonize  and  burn. 
Abraided  of  his  glory — shrouded  now 
In  the  dire  garments  of  the  accursed  race 
Whom  Pride,  the  child  of  Intellect,  o'erthrew, 
Buried  in  blackness  with  the  muttering  slaves 
Of  his  tremendous  treasons — worst  of  all, 
Too  proud  in  desolation's  loneliest  hours 
To  hold  communion  with  inferior  minds, 
Or,  for  a  moment,  bend  the  archangel's  brow 
To  baser  natures,  pale  ABADDON  leaned 
Against  a  towering  pillar  charged  with  flame, 
And  spurned  the  fierce  coiled  serpents  at  his  feet 
With  cairn  derision,  for  he  felt  within 
Strong  anguish  past  their  power.     His  blasted  brow 
Worked  in  a  terrible  torture  as  the  throng 
36 


282  ABADDQiV, 

Of  horrible  remembrances  went  by, 

And  all  the  majesty  of  mind  unblest 

Glared  in  the  high  and  iufughty  scorn  that  burst 

From  his  indrawn,  remorseless,  withering  eyes. 

Hurled  from  the  pinnacle  of  glory — hurled 
From  seraph  throne,  from  love,  from  heaven  and  hope, 
The  matchless  mind,  that  consummated  bliss 
When  o'er  the  crystal  fountain  of  his  soul 
Hovered  ethereal  Purity  and  smiled, 
Now  sealed  the  utter  madness  of  his  doom. 
Memory — the  star-eyed  child  of  Paradise ! 
Rushed  o'er  the  burning  realm  of  banished  thought, 
Raining  her  scorpion  arrows — Shame,  Remorse, 
Vain  Penitence  and  Hatred  of  himself 
Haunted  the  ruined  altar  of  his  soul. 
And  offered  up  the  sacrifice  of  death, 
That  found  no  mercy  and  could  never  die. 
The  glacier  barriers  of  his  banishment, 
Perdition's  shattered  rocks,  whose    awful  peaks- 
Gleamed  in  the  holiest  light  of  glory  lost, 
Closed  round  his  prison-house — his  living  tomb 
Of  still  tremendous  intellect;  despair 
Followed  his  steps  along  his  lava  path, 
And  pride  restrained  his  anguish,  though  no  more 
He  watched  with  the  wild  agony  of  hate 
The  dayspring  or  the  twilight  flight  on  high 
Of  gleaming  seraphim,  or  heard  the  hymns 
Of  cherubs  drinking  knowledge  from  the  fount 
Of  Love  and  basking  in  the  light  of  God. 
The  thoughts,  that  cast  him  from  his  palmy  state, 
The  limitless  aspirings  and  desires 
Of  an  immortal  nature,  once  to  him 
The  ambrosia  and  the  diadem  of  bliss, 
Came  o'er  him  like  the  spectres  of  the  past, 
To  shriek  amid  the  ruins  they  had  caused, 
And  pierce  like  fire-bolts  through  his  maddened  brain. 
He  dared,  and  perished  in  his  power  and  pride, 
Fell  from  the  hallowed  throne  of  cherished  hope 
And  sunk  to  shame — it  was  enough  to  know 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  283 

And  feel  as  great  minds  feel  their  perill'd  might 
And  ruined  fame,  and  conscious  guilt  beyond 
The  venal  casuistry  of  proud  self-love. 
He  would  not  be  Mezentius  to  himself, 
And  wed  his  great  ambition  to  the  corse 
Of  his  dead  being;  nor,  Procrustes-like, 
Measure  departed  happiness  in  heaven 
By  present  misery  in  Hades'  vault. 

So  back  upon  himself,  with  dire  resolve, 
The  voiceless  desperation  of  his  doom, 
He  deeply  shrunk,  and  reck'd  not  of  the  Power 
Forever  paramount,  nor  punishment 
Doomed  to  the  round  of  ages  ;  desolate, 
He  cherished  not  a  hope  of  happier  hours, 
Loved  not,  confided  not,  but  breathed  above 
All  sympathy  and  fellowship  and  fear. 
He  poured  not  tears  on  thunder-riven  rocks, 
Nor  sighs  upon  the  burning  air,  that  fell 
Like  lava  on  his  brain  and  through  his  heart 
In  livid  lightnings  wandered ;  but  he  grasped 
His  garments  of  eternal  flame  and  wrapt 
Their  blazing  folds  around  his  giant  limbs, 
And  stood  with  head  upraised  and  meteor  eye, 
And  still  lips,  whose  pale,  cold  and  bitter  scorn 
Smiled  at  eternity's  deep  agonies, 
The  Spirit  of  Destruction  undestroyed  ! 
Remote  from  all  who  fought  and  fell  like  him, 
In  the  lone  depths  of  vast  Gehenna's  waste, 
And  by  the  lava  mountains  overhung, 
That  darkened  e'en  the  vaulted  vapour's  gloom, 
He  stood  in  that  sick  loneliness  of  soul, 
That  awful  solitude  of  greatness  lost, 
The  Evil,  highly  gifted,  only  know, 
When  every  passion  riots  on  the  spoils 
Of  knowledge,  and  the  fountain  springs  of  life 
Burst  in  a  burning  flood  no  time  can  quench. 

But  that  which  agonized  his  hopeless  heart 
And  stung  him  oft  to  phrenzy — that,  which  hung 


284  ABADDOPf. 

O'er  his  all-dreading  yet  all-daring  soul 
Like  thousand  mountains  of  perpetual  flame, 
Was  earthly  innocence.     Ere  then,  had  flown 
The  fame  of  man's  creation,  in  a  sphere 
Fashioned  in  beauty  for  his  joy  and  use, 
Through  the  black  chambers  of  the  central  world: 
And  misery,  leagued  with  being's  deadliest  foes, 
Blighted  Ambition  and  vain  hope  of  Good, 
Restless  Remorse  and  desolating  Shame, 
Pictured  the  loveliness  and  love  of  earth — 
The  sunlight  hills,  to  whose  immortal  thrones 
Morn  like  a  seraph  in  its  glory  came ; 
The  shadowy  valleys,  where  autumnal  airs 
Mid  pine  and  firwoods  uttered  those  sweet  hymns, 
That  sink  into  the  spirit  and  become 
Oracles  of  future  joy  when  earth  grows  dark  ; 
The  leafy  groves,  still'd  at  the  fervid  noon 
That  silence  may  attend  on  solemn  thought, 
The  incense  rendered  on  the  sun's  vast  shrine  ; 
The  broad  and  beautiful  and  glittering  streams, 
Where  Nature,  in  her  soundless  solitudes, 
Smiled  grateful  back  the  eternal  smile  of  Hope. 

With  the  bright  hues  misfortune  gives  to  joy, 
The  outcast  angel,  in  his  dungeon  gloom 
Girdled  and  counselled  by  the  false  and  vain, 
The  wicked  without  aim  save  love  of  change, 
The  galley  felons  of  unguerdoned  guilt, 
Painted  the  matchless  charms  of  new  born  earth  ; 
And,  as  he  imaged  forth  its  blissful  scenes, 
His  burning,  riven,  desolated  heart 
Groaned  till  the  caverns  of  remotest  hell 
Echoed,  and  all  the  envious  demons  laughed. 
For  well  he  knew  that  while  the  laws  of  God 
Were  as  the  breath  of  life  to  man,  no  power 
Could  loose  Destruction's  adamantine  chains, 
Or  shield  his  haughty  spirit  from  the  scoff 
And  contumelies  low  of  herding  fiends, 
Who  drivelled  e'en  in  torment,  and  could  find 
Meet  mirth  in  wilder  madness,  and  misdeemed 


THE  SPIRIT  OP  DESTRUCTION.  285 

Their  crime  and  agony  of  less  amount, 
When  mind  alone  was  wanting  both  to  rend 
And  still  renew  the  anguish  ne'er  to  close. 

But  soon  from  Eden,  o  er  the  wide  void  deep, 
Returned  the  adversary,  the  master  fiend, 
Moulder  of  fiercest  passions — queller,  too, 
Of  turbulence  and  vain  ferocity, 
Whose  serpent  wisdom  nourished  matchless  pride, 
Whose  hope  was  ruin  and  whose  counsel,  death, 
In  guile  without  a  peer;  on  holy  works 
And  customary  rites  attendant  e'er 
As  come  their  seasons,  with  a  zealot's  speech 
Prolonged  and  trumpeted  that  pours  and  pours 
Like  turbid  waters  by  the  tempest  hurled. 
He  holds  devoted  natures  with  the  grasp 
Of  death,  and  'neath  the  pictured  mask  of  grace 
Hides  the  atrocity  and  doom  of  hell. 
Opinion,  fount  of  action,  falsely  held, 
Founds  and  confirms  his  empire  ;  fallacies, 
With  master  skill  and  magic,  he  distorts 
And  beautifies  with  the  fair  robes  of  faith  ; 
The  martyr's  sacrifice — the  patriot's  doom — 
The  just  man's  dungeon  hours — the  last  despair 
Of  virtue,  and  proud  honour's  agony, 
To  him  are  mirth  and  music;  and  he  feasts, 
With  hetacombs  of  victims  offered  up 
Upon  the  idol  shrine  of  evil  here, 
His  own  eternal  anguish  and  remorse. 
The  rushing  of  his  dragon  wings,  like  storms 
In  mountain  gorges,  shook  the  conscious  air, 
And  rapture  sounded  in  their  vast  quick  sweep 
Along  the  dim  confines  and  swirling  gulf 
Of  chaos  !     Crowded  round  the  cloudy  throne 
Of  Pandsemonium  all  the  rebel  horde, 
And  rapidly,  with  haughty  gesture,  passed 
ABADDON  to  his  place,  the  loftiest  there 
Save  one,  and  terribly  his  glowing  eyes 
Watched  and  awaited  the  descending  chief. 


286  ARADDO.V, 

As  in  the  prophet's  vision  by  the  brink 
Of  Ulai's  orient  wave,  the  victor  foe 
Touched  not  the  earth  in  haughtiness  of  power, 
But,  ere  confronting,  conquered  in  the  spoil ; 
So  rushed  the  giant  prince  of  darkness  now 
On  condor  pinions,  with  hysena  eye, 
And  broad  brow  in  the  storm-cloud  deeply  wrapt, 
In  his  career  exultant  that  despair 
And  death  from  birth  to  burial  should  infect 
Man's  heart  pulse,  paralyze  his  spirit's  power 
Seal  all  his  human  hopes  with  vanity, 
Burden  all  pleasure  with  besetting  fear, 
Wed  honour  to  disgrace  and  pride  to  shame, 
Bring  widowhood  in  youth,  and  friendless  leave 
Unportioned  orphanage  in  evil  days, 
And  change  each  quickened  breath  to  sobs  and  sighs, 
And  o'er  all  scenes  of  love  and  rapture  cast 
The  gloom  of  peril,  hopelessness  and  want 
That  trails  and  languishes  yet  fears  to  end. 

Crowned  with  a  volcan  glory,  came  the  fiend, 
Trembling  amid  his  triumph  lest  the  wrath 
Of  fiercer  retribution  should  pursue 
His  victory,  and  o'er  his  deathless  fate 
Hang  with  unutterable  revenge  that  grasps 
Eternities  of  misery,  though  he  felt 
Awful  capacities,  transcendant  powers, 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil  past  the  scope 
Of  all  created  minds,  and  strength  of  will 
Matched  only  by  his  restless  agony. 
On — on  he  rushed,  like  that  dread  vision  borne 
O'er  Gilboa's  midnight  hills  when  shield  and  spear 
Shiver'd  and  regal  crown  and  sceptre  rolled 
Down  desolate  ravines — resolved  to  bear 
All  evil  worst  imagined  with  a  soul 
Of  quenchless  majesty,  till  o'er  all  space 
Annihilation  reigned  by  chaos"5  side. 
So,  fanning  the  black  gulf  of  flame  amid 
The  horrible  profound,  his  cloud-like  wings 
Furled  at  the  flaming  footstool  of  his  throne. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  287 

"  Triumph,  Dominions  !"  loud  the  arch-dromon  cried, 
His  eyeballs  flashing  round  ;  "  The  Son  of  Heaven 
"  Hath  fallen  as  we  fell !  Ye  legions  ?  Lift 
"  Your  voices  till  the  rifted  concave  shrieks, 
"  For  I  have  vanquished  His  peculiar  work  ! 
"  We  lost  our  birthright  for  Ambition's  wreath 
"  Of  martyrdom,  and  for  ourselves  alone 
"  We  bleed  and  burn ;  but  these  weak  beings  sought 
"  Evil  for  evil's  sake — knew  not,  forewarned, 
"  That  knowledge  is  the  crown  of  destinies, 
"  And  thought  not  that  one  crime  in  them  must  breed 
"  Myriads  of  myriads,  and  perpetuate 
"Misery  and  madness  till  unnumbered  years 
"  Have  wafted  hosts  on  hosts  to  one  abyss 
"  And  earth  no  more  can  sepulchre  the  dead. 
"  Who  shall  arraign  the  Tempter  1  faith,  untried, 
"  May  be  but  falsehood  ;  innocence  becomes 
"  Virtue  but  in  victorious  trial ;  proved 
"  In  his  proud  conquest  o'er  deceit  and  guile, 
"  Man  had  been  worthy  of  his  Maker's  trust, 
"  But,  disobedient  to  well  known  commands, 
"  He  stands  disrobed,  unfolding  what  he  is. 
"  The  Almighty  held  denial  in  his  power 
"  Of  the  permission  to  attest  his  work, 
"  But  used  it  not;  he  might  have  crowned  the  man 
"  With  perspicacity  and  strength  beyond 
"  The  daring  of  the  bravest ;  but  he  left 
"His  creature  to  the  workings  of  his  will, 
"The  illusions  of  his  uncontrolled  desires, 
"  Though  oft  premonished  ;  so,  at  once  he  fell 
"  And  reaped  the  recompense,  and  where  's  the  guilt  ? 
"  Not  mine,  but  his  who  saw  yet  boldly  sinn'd  !  " 
While  Satan  thus  harangued  his  rebel  band, 
Mounted  in  pyramids  the  lurid  flames 
On  the  black  mountains  and  the  vales  of  hell, 
And  loud  the  concentrated  shouts  went  o'er 
The  radiant  battlements  of  heaven,  where  stood 
Seraph  and  cherub  on  their  missioned  charge. 

Scarce  ceased  the  wild  acclaim,  ere  swiftly  rose 
ABADDON  and  down  dropped  his  chains  ;  the  blaze 


288  ABADDON, 

Of  battle  burst  along  his  broad  high  brow, 
Its  thunder  from  his  voice ;  he  stamped  his  foot, 
And  hell  recoiled  ;  he  turned  his  scorching  eyes 
Upon  the  gathered  fiends,  and  all  fell  back, 
Save  Moloch,  with  a  shudder  felt  through  all 
The  realm  of  darkness;  but  a  withering  smile 
Quivered  o'er  Satan's  dreadful  countenance 
To  witness  thus  his  victory ;  his  thoughts 
Sprung  on  eternity's  vast  shadowy  wings, 
And  down  the  viewless  future  madly  rushed, 
With  the  uproar  of  ocean  breaking  through    . 
The  crashing  mountain  barriers  of  the  earth. 
Conquered  and  manacled,  but  unsubdued, 
Despairing,  yet  devoted  to  his  crime, 
He  grasped  at  all  fantastic  shapes — all  shades 
Of  stalwart  phantoms,  gaunt,  and  grim,  and  huge, 
And  moulded  them  to  giant  foes  of  God. 
Though  in  his  Titan  heart  the  poison  stirr'd, 
Thrilled  through  each  vein,  and  every  iron  nerve 
Convulsed,  and  mounted  to  his  burning  brain 
In  boiling  eddies,  yet  his  scornful  lip 
Still  pressed  the  chalice  of  a  vain  revenge. 
He  started  from  his  vision  as  the  fiend 
Of  Ruin,  dark  ABADDON,  shook  his  plumes, 
Broad  as  the  tempest's  banner,  on  the  air, 
And,  roaring  like  the  famished  lion  round 
The  wastes  of  Tadmor  or  Ipsarnboul,  cried — 
"  My  time  hath  come  !  no  more  in  this  black  den 
"  Of  sloth,  and  desolation,  and  despair, 
"  Slumbers  the  Spirit  of  Destruction  !  Sin 
"  Invokes  her  bridegroom  Ruin  !     Earth  and  Time 
"  Already  shudder,  conscious  of  my  tread. 
"  We  meet  no  more  save  on  our  embassies 
"  Of  woe  and  terror  till  our  prince  achieves 
"  His  glutted  vengeance ;  but  in  many  a  land 
"  Ye  shall  be  gods  to  nations,  who  shall  fall 
"  Before  your  shrines  and  sacrifice  their  blood 
"  In  rites  the  stars  shall  mark  with  pale  affright, 
"Mysteries  and  sorceries  and  magic  charms, 
"To  win  the  endless  torment  of  our  hell ! 


THE  SPIRIT  OP  DESTRUCTION.  289 

"  My  spirit  feels  the  knowledge — fallen  man 
"  Will  dare  beyond  the  damned — sink  his  soul 
"  In  vengeance  and  corruption — bare  his  arm 
"  Against  the  heavens  that  bless  him,  and  exceed, 
"  Once  taught,  e'en  my  capacity  of  hate. 
"  Therefore,  exult !  exult !  and  fare  ye  well !" 
He  said ;  and  momently  his  pinions  shook 
Their  first  quick  curses  o'er  the  quivering  void ! 
. 

The  Spirit  of  Celeslial  Love,  that  stood 
Beside  the  throne  of  mercy,  breathing  bliss 
Through  each  ethereal  bosom,  inly  felt 
By  that  mysterious  mind,  which  guides  all  thought 
And  unwilled  feeling  and  directs  all  deeds, 
The  flight  of  evil  and  the  daemon's  power; 
And,  silently  commissioned  by  that  mode 
Ineffable  and  yet  well  known  in  heaven, 
By  which  the  electric  will  of  Deity 
Pervades  all  spirits  as  light  gleams  through  the  eye, 
The  Angel  of  Benevolence  arose 
And  passed  from  peace  and  praise  to  wrath  and  hate, 
From  perfect  bliss  to  doubt  and  care  and  strife, 
From  heaven's  own  glory  to  the  gloom  of  earth. 
But  great  the  guerdon  and  the  final  crown, 
A  living  and  perpetual  fount  of  joy, 
By  human  pride  unsullied,  by  the  lips 
Of  guilt  untouched,  shrined  in  the  unchanging  skies. 
— Thou  soul  of  music  in  a  world  of  hate  ! 
Thou  beautiful  and  holy  spring  of  love 
And  mildness  by  the  bland  and  blessed  voice 
Of  martyrs  and  apostles  gently  called 
Charity,  that  hides  unreckoned  sins. 
O'er  troubled  earth  thou  breathest  balmy  peace, 
Hushing  disquiet  with  a  whisper  heard 
Like  greenwood  hymns  at  eve ;  and  men,  unawed 
By  storm  and  earthquake,  to  thy  soft  low  voice 
Listen  like  convicts  to  unhoped  reprieve. 
Immortal  love  !  though  generations  glide 
In  shadowy  armies  to  the  spirit-land, 
And  kingdoms  perish,  and  their  glories  fade 
37 


ABADDON, 

In  fabled  legends,  and  untravelled  seas 

Lament  o'er  buried  cities,  still  thy  youth, 

Thy  brightness  and  thy  beauty  glow  the  same. 

In  living  hearts  thine  empire  changes  not, 

And  from  the  vale  of  sepulchres  thy  smile 

Wafts  spirits  purified  to  glory's  home  ! — 

— Forth  went  the  angel  to  his  trial,  meek 

In  power,  by  soft  allurements  to  o'ercome 

The  savage  wrath  of  men,  and  thwart  the  aim 

Of  the  remorseless  fiend  loosed  on  his  prey. 

Time  with  the  silent  speed  of  light  passed  o'er 

Eden's  poor  wandering  exiles,  and  the  gush 

Of  their  first  anguish  and  remorse  and  woe, 

Beneath  the  hallowed  influence  of  love, 

Daily  endearment  and  affections  linked, 

And  blended  destinies  and  humbled  thoughts, 

Faded  to  an  endurance  and  a  hope 

That  breathed  like  zephyr  o'er  them  ;  and  they  drew 

From  nature  and  her  eloquence  of  bloom, 

Her  moonlight  music  and  her  starry  hymn, 

Her  still  green  places  of  repose,  her  crowned 

And  glorious  mountains,  where  the  bannered  trees 

Against  the  sunset  sky  like  angels  stood 

And  waved  the  way  to  heaven — they  daily  drew 

A  blessing  on  their  toil — a  sacred  charm 

For  loneliness  that  fell  not  on  the  heart, 

Meek  quiet  filled  with  stilly  dreams  of  days 

Unborn — and  lifted  up  in  thankfulness — 

And  faith  that  linked  them  to  immortal  life 

With  Him,  the  Christ,  redeeming  what  he  judged. 

So  in  each  others'  weal  and  in  the  love 
Of  children  smiling  on  a  wondrous  world, 
And,  like  the  lonicera  round  the  palm, 
Climbing  about  their  bosoms  while  the  flowers 
Of  young  mind  perfumed  all  the  enchanted  air, 
They  found  their  solace ;  and  winged  pleasure  sung 
Around  their  rest,  undreading  future  ill. 
Years  brought  their  fruits  and  flocks,  and  ABEL'S  voice 
Cheerily  went  up  on  morning  airs,  aad  swelled 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  391 

In  that  sweet  living  melody  of  heart 
Pure  thoughts  inspire  at  hallowed  eventide. 
His  home  was  on  the  hills,  his  altar  there  ; 
His  sceptre  was  his  crook,  his  soul  his  throne, 
Peace  was  his  realm,  his  God  was  everywhere. 

CAIN  tilled  the  earth,  a  stern  and  wayward  man, 
Cursing  the  curse  of  toil  and  barrenness, 
Though  plenty  clothed  the  hillside  and  the  vale 
With  golden  beauty,  and  his  generous  herds 
Reposed,  full  banquetted,  on  broad  green  meads. 
He  recked  not  of  the  gentleness  of  love, 
Calm  virtue  and  submitted  pride  and  thoughts 
Exalted  o'er  all  evil,  from  the  dross 
Of  earth  refined  and  fitted  for  their  home. 
But  great  ambition  panted  for  renown 
And  monuments  and  temples  and  a  fame 
Immortal  as  the  skies  that  watched  his  soul. 
Tradition,  uttered  by  the  voice  of  grief, 
Had  told  the  pomp  of  hierarchies  throned 
And  sceptred  seraphim,  and  CAIN'S  vain  heart 
Burn'd  for  their  princedoms  and  their  potencies. 
So  evil  grew,  and  daily  to  his  task 
He  bore  a  darker  spirit ;  envy  cast 
Midnight  o'er  happiness  not  left  for  him, 
And  hatred  tracked  the  shepherd  to  the  hills. 
There  are  two  altars  on  a  lonely  mount 
Since  named  the  Throne  of  Elbours,  mid  the  land 
Of  Iran,  clothing  its  dark  brow  in  clouds, 
While  thunder  voices  down  each  shattered  gorge, 
Ravine  of  rocks  and  dreary  shagged  glen 
Mutter  and  moan,  and  in  the  fiery  depth 
The  dread  volcano  startles  into  wrath. 
Beside  each  shrine  stand  two  majestic  forms, 
Beautiful  in  early  manhood,  girt  with  strength 
As  with  a  robe  of  steel,  whose  thousand  chains 
Sleep  'neath  the  silken  draperies  and  plumes 
And  broidered  cloth  of  gold  of  courtier  pomp. 
Yet  in  their  orisons  and  deedi  unlike, 


292  ABADDON, 

Their  thoughts  and  sacrifice,  a  spotless  lamb 

Divided  lay  on  ABEL'S  shrine  ;  the  fruit 

Of  earth,  the  haughty  offering  of  a  heart 

That  bade  the  Deity  accept  the  form 

Of  worship,  and  give  back  the  meed  deserved, 

Fell  from  the  hand  of  pride  upon  the  wood 

Of  CAIN  heaped  on  steep  rocks  in  shapeless  piles. 

The  shepherd's  prayer  in  stillness  mounts  to  God, 

And  fire  descends  and  curls  in  lambent  wreaths 

O'er  faith's  oblation  and  adoring  love. 

But  darkly  broods  the  storm  of  heavenly  wrath 

O'er  the  unholy  sacrifice  of  guilt ; 

Naked  before  the  eye  of  judgement  stands, 

Benetted  with  hypocrisies  and  crimes, 

The  fierce  conspirator,  whom  evil  thoughts 

Clothe  as  a  garment ;  and  he  turns  aside 

From  the  heart-withering  glance  aghast  with  shame, 

Yet  desecrated  to  revenge  in  blood. 

Lowered  the  flushed  brow  of  CAIN — his  visage  fell, 

And  through  the  darkened  avenues  of  sin 

The  Fiend  of  Ruin  to  his  bosom  stole 

And  stirred  the  livid  flame:  "  Thy  Maker  scorns 

"  Thee  and  thy  service  and  he  hath  respect 

"Alone  for  slaves  who  prostrate  do  his  will. 

"  Thy  vassal  brother  wins  the  praise  of  God 

"  By  austere  life  and  a  feigned  awe  of  heaven, 

"  While  thou,  the  victim,  though  thou  hast  the  power 

"  Of  victor,  waitest  on  his  sanctity, 

"  And,  with  a  forced  repentance,  standest  by 

"  To  breathe  the  accepted  incense  of  thy  foe  ! 

"  Earth,  sea  and  hell  cry  vengeance — be  avenged  !  v 

CAIN  listened  and  obeyed — his  weapon  fell — 

Death  started  from  the  gory  ground  and  gazed 

With  haggard  horror  on  his  father  fiend. 

And  fled,  the  trembling  vanquisher !     All  heaven 

In  awful  stillness  heard  the  martyr's  groan, 

The  cherubim  amid  their  worship  paused, 

And  even  the  viewless  throne  of  God  was  veiled 

In  sevenfold  darkness ! — silence  hushed  her  heart ! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  298 

Cursed  with  a  deathless  agony — the  seal 
Of  terror  on  his  brow,  the  fire  of  death 
Coiling  around  his  spirit,  to  man's  scorn 
And  desolation  and  despair  marked  out, 
Creating  solitude  where'er  he  comes, 
Shunned  by  the  death  he  summoned  from  the  sod, 
And  left  a  breathing  sepulchre  amid 
The  mirth  of  nuptials  and  the  feast  of  birth, 
Departs  the  Fratricide ;  and  with  him  haste 
To  the  lone  wilds  of  Elam,  land  of  Nod, 
Belial  and  Moloch,  grovelling  chiefs  of  hell. 

Hast  thou  beheld  the  Persecutor  gloat 
O'er  banished  virtue,  outcast  guiltlessness  ? 
Hast  thou  beheld  him  following  Want's  slow  tread 
To  poison  every  little  stream  of  life  ? 
Oh,  hast  thou  heard  him  whisper  chill  distrust 
And  viper  caution  into  friendship's  ear, 
And  seen  the  electric  change — the  altered  eye, 
The  hand  withdrawn — the  petrified  repulse — 
While  voiceless  Innocence  retired  and  wept? 
Hast  thou  seen  hatred  wear  the  guise  of  grace, 
And  robe  revenge  in  the  fair  garb  of  heaven  ? 
Before  me  rises  the  inquisitor, 

With  meek  hands  folded  on  his  breast — bowed  head, 
And  downcast  eyes,  and  noiseless,  gliding  step, 
Proudly  exulting  in  the  awarded  praise 
Of  mild  humility  and  zeal  chastised 
By  holy  ruth  that  weeps  the  doom  it  speaks ; 
While  rancour  revels  in  his  bigot  heart, 
And  chain  and  faggot — woe  and  lingering  death 
Rejoice  his  spirit  more  than  temple  hymns. 
Thus  to  his  spoil  went  forth  the  dreadful  Fiend, 
(And  he  hath  many  a  slave  even  now  on  eanh) 
To  gather  in  the  harvest  of  his  hate. 

Crime  came  to  consummation  when  the  sons 
Of  heaven  reviled  the  image  of  their  King, 
Wedded  idolatries  and  nameless  rites, 
Debased  their  nature  in  the  dust  and  sealed 


S94  ABADDON, 

Lovebonds  with  the  accursed  race  of  CAIN. 
Hence  miscreations  came — the^giant  kings 
Of  old,  and  monsters,  hideous  birth  of  sin, 
Phoenicia's  Anakim — Titanic  chiefs, 
Centaurs  and  Lapithas,  vampires  and  gnomes, 
Malign  and  elvish  dwarfs  whom  dregs  suffice, 
Save  that  they,  serpent-like,  will  lick  the  dust — 
Briareus,  Polyphemus  and  their  peers, 
Nature's  abhorrence  and  derision,  sent 
To  riot  in  all  wrong  and  waste  and  woe. 
Bright,  young  and  beautiful,  the  world  o'erflowed 
With  shame  that  hath  no  voice  in  better  days, 
And  mercy,  wearied  with  perpetual  guilt, 
Lifted  her  prayer  no  more,  and  justice  cried 
"God's  spirit  shall  not  always  strive  with  man!" 

The  years  of  long  forbearance  slowly  fled, 
The  vision  of  the  prophet  from  all  eyes 
Vanished  like  sunrise  vapors,  and  the  words 
Of  wisdom  echoed  like  a  dying  voice 
In  Sinai's  wilderness  ;  no  spirit  bowed, 
No  heart  relented  at  the  coming  wrath. 
Revel  that  brought  no  joy,  and  shrill-voiced  mirth 
Most  melancholy  poured  their  madness  out, 
And  lozels  wantonn'd  o?er  the  poisoned  bowl, 
And  blasphemy  embraced  the  shape  of  death, 
Howling  hoarse  curses,  and  all  forms  of  sin, 
All  gross  imaginations  of  desire, 
All  vampyre  appetites  and  goule-like  lusts 
Trampled  and  triumphed  o'er  the  laws  of  God. 

The  pictured  cloud  conceals  the  wildest  storm, 
The  earthquake  leaps  from  slumber  into  rage, 
And  guilt,  most  safe,  is  nearest  to  despair. 
All  bosoms  had  been  gored  by  man's  excess, 
And  all  thoughts  coined  and  coffered  up  to  pile 
The  matchless  monument  of  evil  deeds. 
Poesy,  the  bride  of  Beauty^and  the  child 
Of  Purity,  immortal  in  the  skies, 
Soiled  by  the  atheist  and  the  ribald,  lost 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  295 

The  brightness  of  her  birthright,  the  blest  charm 

Of  her  ecstatic  being  that  hung  round 

Her  sylphic  form  in  rainbow  robes  of  light, 

And  fell  before  the  altar  of  the  Fiend. 

Struck  by  the  pestilence  that  roamed  each  track 

Of  daily  life,  the  Good  in  forests  dim 

Or  Al-Gezira's  loneliest  caverns  dwelt, 

Pale  famished  anchorets,  and  hoary  hairs 

Waved  in  the  winter-winds  of  Oman's  Sea. 

These  few  ;  the  undreaded  Future's  destinies 

Rival  not  present  policy — the  scope 

Of  proud  example,  and  expediency, 

That  sullies  more  than  less  occult  offence. 

Hoar  heads  alone  rever'd  celestial  laws ; 

Exuberant  youth,  in  confidence  of  time, 

Held  the  late  banquet,  seeking  pleasure's  meed 

Among  the  bowers  of  pain  ;  and  Jubal's  lyre, 

Hung  on  the  willow,  harped  in  desert  winds. 

To  crown  the  cup  of  vengeance  and  to  bar 

All  hope  forever,  sons  of  Belial  poured 

On  Noah's  heart  the  gall  of  base  report 

And  pointed  at  him  with  a  scoff  and  jeer, 

And  drove  him  from  their  dwellings  with  reproach. 

Then  came  the  herald  of  the  heavens  and  closed, 

With  awful  words,  the  prophet's  mission  there  ; 

And,  hovering  o'er  his  victims  in  the  pride 

Of  power,  ABADDON  listened  to  the  roar 

Of  coming  Ruin  as  the  war-steed  drinks 

At  mourn  the  music  of  the  noon-tide  strife. 

Lingering  like  hopeless  love  around  the  form 
Of  its  young  worship,  slowly  on  the  verge 
Of  the  blue  firmament  a  bannered  cloud 
O'er  Taurus  rose  and  rested  in  the  air. 
Upon  its  folds  deep  darkness  hung  and  oft 
Quick  shooting  gleams  of  lurid  fire  withdrew, 
For  momentary  glances  of  mad  fear, 
The  vast  dark  curtain  of  God's  mysteries. 
Then  up  't  was  lifted  o'er  the  lovely  vault 
Broader  and  blacker,  and  the  thunder's  voice 


296  ABADDON, 

O'er  Caucasus  and  Shinar's  evil  realm 

Rushed,  like  the  archangel's  trumpet  blast  of  doom, 

Crying  "  Repent  while  judgement  waits  your  prayers  !" 

But  silence  answered,  and  ascended  higher 

The  tempest  in  tremendous  masses  swept 

Like  dust  before  the  samiel.     On  the  peak, 

The  utmost  pinnacle  of  those  vast  clouds, 

Grasping  the  arrowy  bolts  that  round  his  brows 

Hung  like  a  crown,  and  glaring  down  on  earth 

With  eyes  of  basilisk  that  drank  the  blood, 

The  Appearance  of  a  giant  shape  appeared; 

And,  as  the  priest  and  prophet  sadly  paused 

To  gaze  and  weep,  he  raised  his  swimming  eyes 

To  watch  the  moment  when  the  door  must  close 

And  hope  expire ;  and,  like  a  swirling  bark 

In  Norway's  Maelstrom,  sank  his  awe-struck  heart — 

For  he  beheld  ABADDON,  calling  up 

All  wandering  vapours  from  the  shoreless  Deep, 

Guiding  the  hurricane  and  hurrying  on 

The  dread  reluctant  Ruin,  and  he  heard 

The  laugh  of  hell  beneath  the  stars  of  heaven. 

Up  to  the  zenith  heaved  the  o'erfraught  clouds 
And  hung — then  fell,  dread  billows  of  the  sky — 
Upon  the  far  horizon.     Through  the  depths 
Of  the  tumultuous  welkin  flew  the  flames 
Like  fiery  scorpions ;  east  to  west  replied  ; 
Pole  shrieked  to  pole ;  the  brazen  atmosphere 
Grew  ghastly  mid  conflicting  lights  and  shades, 
And  quivered  till  the  eyeballs  blurred  and  reeled. 
And  peril  and  dismay  and  fainting  fear 
And  terror  and  confusion  and  despair 
Entered,  like  siegers  furious  for  the  spoil, 
The  abodes  of  the  deserted,  while  the  floods 
Fell,  like  Araxes  from  Armenian  hills, 
Or  thousand  torrents  from  Cordillera's  brow, 
Down — down  upon  the  drenched  and  gasping  earth. 
The  apostates  at  their  feast  in  songs  obscene 
Mocked  Noah  and  his  storm-ship,  shouting  "  Lo  ! 
"  The  madness  of  the  hypocrite  !  his  beams 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION. 

"  Of  gopher  to  the  cruel  seas  will  tell 

"  A  tale  of  wreck,  and  all  his  crowded  beasts 

"  Will  roar  the  lawless  ocean  into  peace. 

"  Fill  round  and  drink  for  wisdom — the  red  wine 

"  Mantles  with  pure  philosophy — old  CAIN 

"Commends  its  cheering  in  the  chilly  night!" 

So  talked  the  infidels;  but  morn  replied  ! 

They  slept  the  sleep  of  wassail ;  but,  ere  stars 
Faded  behind  the  universe  of  clouds, 
All  woke  in  the  wild  terror  of  the  Bad. 
The  solid  battling  skies  poured  deluge  down, 
Typhon  poured  out  earth's  dirge  from  heavens  of  wrath, 
The  forests  shook  and  heaved  and  tossed  and  creaked, 
The  waters  through  their  dwellings  dashed  and  moaned, 
The  herds  sent  up  a  piteous  cry — the  flocks 
Were  hurried  o'er  the  illimitable  waste 
Of  countless  torents  and  the  desert  beasts 
Mingled  their  yells  with  the  last  wail  of  men. 

Day  broke  and  in  the  grey  and  quivering  gloom, 
The  dull,  cold  twilight  of  the  cheerless  morn, 
All  eyes  beheld  on  waters  bubbling  up 
From  every  fountain  of  the  yawning  earth, 
And  pouring  from  each  livid  mass  above, 
The  Cypress  Ark,  the  home  of  truth  and  love, 
The  just  man's  sanctuary  ;  and  with  shrieks, 
And  supplications  and  despairing  tears, 
Ten  thousand  voices  blended  in  one  prayer — 
"  Receive  us  !  save  us  from  devouring  deeps  ! 
"  Receive  us  !  save  us  from  the  tempest's  rage  ! 
"  Receive  us  !  save  us  from  the  wrath  of  GOD  !" 
But  on  o'er  surging  seas  and  broken  waves 
Floated  the  Ark — the  eternal  door  was  shut. 

The  shuddering  waters  gathered,  and  the  cries 
Of  utter,  hopeless,  helpless  agony 
Rose  o'er  the  crash  and  howl  of  elements 
Convulsed  and  quivering  in  each  other's  wrath. 
Vain  were  uplifted  arms  and  faces  wrought 
38 


298  ABADDON, 

To  anguish  ;  vain,  the  hoarse  and  strangled  voice 

Of  sinking  feebleness  ;  and  vain  the  shrieks 

Of  beauty,  erst  the  wonder  and  delight 

Of  human  passion,  while  the  torents  swelled, 

And  quick  through  shattered  billows  glanced  pale  brows, 

Closed  eyes  and  raven  hair,  amid  the  foam, 

Like  countless  apparitions  round  the  couch 

Of  fever,  hovering  for  a  moment's  lapse, 

Then  vanishing  far  down  the  unfathomed  Deep. 

Down  came  the  Deluge.     Kuma's  lonely  vale 
Beneath  far  stretching  Caucasus  no  more 
Glowed  in  its  beauty  like  a  virgin  bride 
Unclosing  the  barr'd  vizor  of  her  lord. 
The  bright  and  glorious  hills  above  the  flood 
Looked  forth  and  vanished,  while  the  victims  clung 
To  the  drown'd  cliffs  and  topmost  trees  and  gasped 
Their  last  quenched  shriek  for  succour ;  every  pulse 
Ceased  in  the  turbid  waters — every  head 
Sank  on  its  cold,  dark  pillow — all  was  still  1 
One  moment's  struggle — and  the  silence  fell ; 
One  awful  pang — and  Death  swept  o'er  the  sea 
And  found  no  sacrifice  !     Then  hoary  CAIN, 
Whom  multitude  of  years,  baptized  in  guilt, 
And  branded  with-  impieties,  had  brought 
To  this  dread  expiation,  'mid  his  sons, 
His  nation  of  idolaters,  overwhelmed 
By  the  resistless  billows,  proudly  fell 
In  sullen  haughty  silence  and  cold  scorn 
And  unrepentant  pride ;  and  his  last  breath 
Quivered  with  voiceless  curses  as  he  swirled 
Along  the  surf  and  vanished  in  the  gulf. 

Then  with  a  music  like  the  battle  dirge 
From  midnight  mountains  sent  in  waves  of  sound 
O'er  forest  and  dark  dell  and  starless  vale, 
ABADDON  whirr'd  along  the  dreadful  waste. 
Loud  cried  he  in  his  glory  :  "  Triumph  yet ! 
"  Sin  loves  her  bridegroom  Ruin !  loyal  Death 
"Obeys  his  monarch  and  the  world  is  mine !" 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  299 

Creation  groaned ;  the  universe  throughout 

Infinity  with  sudden  terror  quaked, 

Then  came  a  Voice :  "  Thou  dost  what  GOD  permits, 

"  Apostate,  reprobated  slave  of  crime  ! 

"The  author,  punisher  and  victim  too 

"  Of  recusant  and  unforgiven  guilt ! 

"Vaunt not,  with  fond  ovation,  evil  done 

"  By  heaven's  allowance,  lest  thy  doom  should  be 

"  To  invent  fresh  torture  for  thy  fellow  fiends  !" 

The  Daemon  quailed;  yet  soon  above  the  Ark 

Hovered  on  giant  pinions,  looking  down 

With  vulture  eyes  unsated  by  despair. 

The  mountains  trembled  in  the  vast  abyss, 

The  Hazaldera  to  their  centre  shook, 

Hyrcania's  sea  forgot  its  ancient  bounds, 

Wandering  o'er  precipice  and  wood  and  wild, 

And  ocean's  viewless  monsters  o'er  their  tops 

And  in  their  awful  caverns  rolled  their  vast 

Unwieldy  forms  and  played  their  giant  game. 

Meantime,  the  floating  temple  wandered  on ; 
And  in  the  bosom  of  the  house  of  God 
Rested  the  child  of  heaven  ;  and  praise  and  prayer, 
Chastened  affection,  gentle  gratitude, 
Serene  devotedness  and  fearless  trust 
Worshipped  in  every  pure  though  saddened  heart. 
Peace  as  in  Paradise  reigned  sole ;  the  asp 
And  viper  coiled  beside  the  infant's  couch, 
Lion  and  elephant  and  cougar  fed 
With  lamb,  gazelle  and  antelope ;  the  breath 
Of  wolverines  and  leopards  stirr'd  the  fur 
Of  slumbering  creatures  once  their  hate  and  spoil. 
For  there  the  Angel  of  Celestial  Love 
Abode  as  afterward  above  the  seat 
Of  mercy  and  between  the  cherubim, 
To  commune  with  the  spirit  that  had  dared 
The  scorner's  blasphemy,  the  earth-fiend's  assault, 
The  hatred  and  contempt  of  men,  and  soared 
Beyond  the  scope  of  evil — and  to  teach 
His  faith  by  prophecies  of  future  good, 


300  ABADDON, 

And  glory  and  dominion ;  how  that  vice 
Should  minister  to  virtue  and  guilt  change 
Its  nature  and  be  fashioned  into  good, 
And  all  conspiracies  of  men  and  fiends 
But  consummate  the  last  great  praise  of  heaven. 
So  counseled  and  consoled,  when  hung  the  Ark 
On  Ararat,  and  no  more  the  dove  came  back, 
Forth  went  the  Patriarch  to  his  own  wide  world. 

When  the  clear  rivers  had  resumed  their  banks, 
And  vivid  verdure  gladdened  o'er  the  plain, 
And  every  tenant  of  the  storm-ship,  robed 
Again  in  its  peculiar  nature,  had  gone  forth 
To  breathe  the  living  air  of  mountain  haunts 
And  graze  upon  the  vale  of  fountains  bright 
With  moon  and  sunlight  and  the  stars'  soft  smiles, 
The  rainbow  revelation  of  the  skies 
O'er  wood  and  mountain  glowed  with  hues  of  heaven, 
And  on  the  altar  of  man's  sacrifice 
Appeared  the  missioned  Angel ;  "  Never  more, 
"  Saith  God,  shall  Deluge  drown  the  earth  ;  no  more, 
"  Till  Time  expires,  shall  dewy  seedtime  fail 
"  Or  cheerful  harvest;  cold  and  heat  shall  track 
"Each  other's  footsteps  in  the  round  of  years, 
"  And  birth  and  death  to  nations  shall  succeed 
"  As  nature  dictates."     Upward  soared  the  voice. 

Revered  in  reverend  age,  for  all  his  deeds 
Were  chronicled  in  Honour's  living  scroll 
And  with  remembrances  most  sacred  charged — 
Beloved  in  his  last  hour — the  deeper  then — 
For  countless  hearts  had  garnered  up  his  thoughts, 
His  counsels,  his  examples,  faith  and  love — 
The  Patriarch  (by  the  sage  of  thousand  years 
Named  Noah,  consolation  for  the  curse) 
Summoned  around  his  deathbed  from  afar, 
Cathay,  fair  Al-Gezira  and  the  isles 
Since  titled  of  the  Gentiles,  and  the  shores 
Of  Oman's  sea  and  the  broad  realms  that  clasp 
Those  waters  trusted  in  all  times  with  wealth 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  301 

Of  argosies  and  galleons  and  triremes, 
Laden  by  Egypt,  Sidon,  Tyre  and  Moors 
Of  Afric  and  proud  lords  of  Christendom — 
These  called  he — sons  yet  chiefs  and  kings — 
Before  his  presence  ere  the  soul  grew  dim, 
Pour'd  in  their  waiting  minds  dread  prophecies, 
And  histories  of  mutable  though  prospered  life, 
And  then  gave  up  to  his  Preserver  God 
His  spirit,  tried  and  purified  by  time. 
In  latter  ages  he,  who  wanders  down 
Euphrates'  banks,  may  see  nomades  stand 
Beside  an  ivied  moss-grown  monument 
Mid  ancient  woods,  and  hear  the  watchers  say 
"  Behold  Dair  JJbunah — the  temple-tomb 
"  Of  him  who  saw  the  world  expire  and  lived." 

Once  more  the  earth  was  peopled,  and  the  land 
Portioned  among  the  children  of  the  just. 
The  branching  olive  in  the  valley  grew, 
The  vintage  on  the  hillside  blushed,  and  grain 
Waved  its  green  glories  o'er  rejoicing  fields. 
But  men  forgot  their  blessings  and  despised 
Their  birthright,  and  the  standard  of  their  king 
Deserted  in  the  faithlessness  of  sin, 
Deeming  their  own  vain  workmanship  could  build 
Castles  impregnable,  towers  proudly  crown'd 
By  the  blue  heavens,  secure  from  future  wreck. 
Thus  tempted  he,  ABADDON,  for  he  knew 
That  doubt  brings  terror — fear  of  boundless  power 
Avoidance  of  communion  and  concern 
And  final  hate ;  and  to  this  scope  he  swayed 
The  fickle  mind  of  youth,  with  dread  of  ill 
Blending  sublime  and  thrilling  phantasies 
Of  honour,  greatness,  affluence,  and  fame. 
Hence  rose  corrupt  condemners — judges  throned 
In  bought  authority  and  base  insolence, 
Accusers,  yet  dispensers  of  men's  doom. 
Hence  tyrants  rose,  who  trampled  on  quick  hearts, 
And  drank  the  shrieks  and  agonies  of  earth. 
Hence  envy  sprung,  armed  at  its  birth  with  stings 


302  ABADDOJf, 

Of  scorpions,  and  revenge  from  midnight  gloom 
Leapt  on  its  victim  with  uplifted  hand. 
But  craftsmen  skill'd  like  Sinon  in  old  time, 
Who  offered  ruin  upon  Ilium's  shrine, 
Or  Clazomenian  Artemon,  who  wrought 
The  fierce  balista,  or  Daedalus  fam'd, 
Rival  not  wisely  Him,  whose  moment's  thought 
Created  myriad  systems,  stars  and  suns. 
Each  artizan  on  Babel  sudden  heard 
Mysterious  voices  from  familiar  lips, 
Unknown  behests  from  architects  wellknown, 
And  each  misdeemed  the  other  mad  or  seized 
With  fiend  possession.     Anger,  wrath,  distrust 
Threw  gloom  on  every  stricken  countenance, 
And  sundered  the  assemblage  and  dispersed 
O'er  undiscovered  realms  and  regions  wild, 
Forest  and  seashore,  mountain,  dale,  and  plain, 
Proud  men  and  builders  vain,  who  left  behind 
The  monument  of  folly  to  proclaim 
The  nothingness  of  man's  magnificence. 

In  earlier  years,  unvisited  as  yet, 
Though  fraught  with  many  evils,  by  the  rage 
Of  worst  assassins,  in  my  solitude 
I  sung  the  vengeance  and  the  recompense 
Of  guilt  that  wrecked  the  Cities  of  the  Plain  ; 
And,  earlier  still,  the  triumph  on  the  waste 
Of  Israel  o'er  the  banded  host  and  pride 
Of  Egypt  long  renowned  for  arts  and  arms. 
And  now,  thou  beautiful  imperson'd  Thought ! 
Queen  of  the  blest  Camcense  !     Dweller  lone 
On  promentories  high,  by  pebbly  spring, 
Clear  as  thy  soul  and  mirror'd  like  thy  heart, 
Here  stay  thy  flight;  thou  canst  not  follow  death 
Through  all  its  triumphs  in  all  time,  nor  paint 
The  Daemon  as  he  swiftly  sweeps  the  world, 
Rushing  from  woe  to  woe,  and  bearing  high 
His  carnage  front,  crown'd  with  its  wreath  of  flame. 
But  thou  canst  picture  such  disastrous  deeds 
As  leave  their  deadliest  wounds  in  life,  and  so 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  303 

Offer  upon  thy  country's  shrine  thy  lay. 

Guide  now  my  flying  song  through  awful  scenes 

That  darken  the  soul's  sunlight,  and  let  not 

Thy  deep  moralities  and  lessons  stern 

Be  wanting  to  instruct  the  soul  of  man 

That  wisdom  dwells  with  cloistered  gentleness, 

And  greatness  with  a  conquest  o'er  desire, 

And  fame  with  justice  and  with  duty,  peace! 

Remorseless  avarice  and  serpent  guile  ; 
The  ravine  and  the  rapine  of  men  loos'd 
By  legal  sanction  on  each  other's  weal ; 
Accursed  usury  and  trade  that  seared 
The  generous  spirit  of  benignant  youth  ; 
Feud,  faction,  rivalry  in  court  and  camp, 
In  nuptial  pomp  and  guady  obsequies, 
And  daily  intercourse;  pale  jealousy, 
Blighting  the  mildewed  heart  and  forging  wrongs 
To  consummate  suspicion  ;  envy,  hate, 
Howling  defiance  or  disguised  to  kill ; 
All  desolating  slander,  whispered  out 
In  night  assemblies,  and  ere  noontide  hurled 
O'er  the  wide  town  to  feast  upon  the  slain ; 
These  and  unnumbered  terrors  more  were  born 
When  cities  rose  and  thronged  societies 
Drave  sleeping  passion  into  ruthless  war, 

Nor  Sheikh  nor  Ephori  nor  Archon  throned 
In  Areopagus,  nor  Consul  stern 
In  curule  chair,  nor  chief  nor  king  nor  czar, 
Could  ever  crush  the  giant  crimes  of  men, 
Or  hold,  when  maddened  by  indignities, 
Their  bandit  natures  subject  to  his  law. 
All  codes  and  pandects  and  enactments  framed 
By  skill'd  and  titled  senates  cannot  bind 
Man  to  his  fellow's  weal,  nor  countermine 
The  quick  evasions  of  a  mind  resolved 
To  build  on  human  heads  its  dome  of  gold. 
Custom  creates  desire,  and  want  uplifts 
Its  voice  and  yearns  for  common  vanities ; 


304  ABADDON, 

And  folly,  minister  to  pride,  hath  had 
Its  bribe  in  every  age  and  clime  and  heart ; 
And  interest  coins  new  gold  from  sack  and  spoil 
To  bear  the  gorgeous  pageant  bravely  on. 
So  luxury  dissolves  the  strength  of  men, 
And  poverty  degrades  the  eagle  thought; 
And  faith  deserts  all  commerce  and  all  speech. 
Then  tyrants  trample  ;  but  the  same  dark  fiend, 
That  covered  them  with  purple,  yet  hath  slaves 
Mora  terrible  than  this  ;  and  rebels  crouch 
Around  the  throne  to  cleave  one  despot's  brain, 
And  seat  another  on  their  vassal  necks. 
Thus  doubt,  intrigue,  cabal  and  mutual  hate, 
The  monstrous  birth  and  bane  of  social  life, 
Bear  retribution  to  the  lips  of  all. 

All  history  is  but  a  scroll  of  blood, 
The  record  of  destruction  and  despair  ; 
The  life  of  man  hath  parted  from  each  sod 
Where  spreads  a  kingdom,  and  the  voice  of  woe 
Uttered  its  wailings  round  triumphal  cars, 
And  purple  pomp  and  unrestricted  power, 
Since  first  the  astonished  sun  beheld  the  sin 
And  shuddering  horror  of  Earth's  fallen  sire. 
Ixion's  wheel,  the  rock  of  Sisyphus, 
The  Danaides'  hopeless,  endless  toil, 
But  image  to  our  wiser  sense  of  fate 
The  misery  and  the  madness  that  have  crowned 
Lust  and  ambition  since  the  cherub's  sword 
Gleamed  o'er  the  closed  gate  of  lost  paradise. 

Lo !  glorious  Babylon — the  gorgeous  queen, 
The  lady  of  earth's  kingdom  !  beauty,  strength, 
Dominion,  glory,  and  magnificence 
Gleamed  in  her  diadem,  and  nations  quailed 
Before  the  rushing  squadrons  of  her  kings. 
Towers,  castles,  palaces  and  guarded  walls, 
That  shadowed  the  sheen  dayspring; — colonnades, 
Whose  porphyry  pillars  glowed  with  crowns  of  gems, 


THE  SPIRIT   OF  DESTRUCTION.  305 

And  glittering  marts  of  merchant  princes  meet 
To  purchase  monarchies  ; — and  temples  wreathed 
With  gold  and  diamonds,  through  rosy  airs 
Soaring  to  heaven; — and  from  vast  terraces 
Gardens,  like  Eden's  in  its  hours  of  bliss, 
Gemm'd  with  the  matchless  flowers  of  all  the  east, 
And  shaded  by  the  cedar,  laurel,  palm 
And  grovelike  banyan,  hanging  from  the  walls — 
All  these  defended  and  adorned  her  pride, 
Her  boasted  immortality  of  power, 
And  captive  monarchs  laid  their  sceptres  down 
Beneath  her  footstool,  while  her  king  of  kings, 
Nabocolasser  deigned  to  bid  them  serve. 
Girded  by  battlements  that  mocked  assault, 
And  beautified  by  every  art  of  man, 
Her  bands  invincible  o'erspread  the  earth, 
And  garnered  up  in  her  proud  palaces 
The  majesty  and  pomp  of  prostrate  thrones. 
But  strength,  on  odours  pillowed,  faints  and  dies, 
And  glory  brooks  not  love's  voluptuous  ease. 
Fame  sculptures  its  own  throne  and  monument, 
O'er  perishable  existencies  and  things 
Doomed  to  decay  it  pours  its  deathless  soul, 
And  in  the  realms  of  thought  forever  reigns. 
But  from  the  hidden  urns  of  gold  and  gems 
The  spirit  of  magnificence  enshrined 
In  darkness,  from  temptation's  weak  research, 
The  destined  king,  whom  vice  emasculates, 
Bears  to  his  banquet  poison  and  despair  ! 
Nimrod  and  Ninus  and  Semiramis 
Gazed  from  the  icy  pinnacle  sublime 
Of  restless  action  and  un  slum  be  ring  toil 
On  broken  dynasties  and  conquered  crowns 
With  wine  and  courtezans  and  sycophants 
Belshazzar  revelFd  till  the  spectre  hand 
Wrote  ruin  on  the  radiant  tapestries, 
And  ivory  pillars  of  his  banquet  hall, 
And  Merle  and  Persian  up  Euphrates'  bed 
Hushed  to  the  throne  that  held  no  more  a  king. 
39 


306  ABADDON, 

The  solitary  Syrian  pilgrim  roams 
Through  Hellah's  dismal  hamlet  and  discerns, 
He  deems,  from  hot  and  drifted  sand  exhumed, 
Relics  of  Babylon — yet  doubts  his  quest, 
And  searches  more  intently,  while  the  wind 
Moans  o'er  the  desert  with  a  broken  voice, 
And  bats  and  bitterns  hover,  and  the  fox 
Springs  from  his  burrow,  and  the  jackal's  scream 
Haunts  the  lone  air  throughout  the  livelong  night. 
This  is  ambition's  triumph  !  this  the  crown 
And  consummation  of  earth's  monarchies! 
Myriads  have  toiled  their  threescore  years,  and  bled, 
And  swallowed  loathingly  their  galley  food, 
And  died,  the  slaves  of  myrmidons,  for  this  ! 
Childless  Chaldea  !  realms  of  sorceries, 
And  worldly  wisdom  and  enchantment!  queen 
Of  all  that  charms  man's  nature  and  inflames 
His  fatal  hopes — pale  dust  to  dust  gone  down — 
Thy  sole  memorial  but  a  word — a  name! 

The  pale  pure  pearl  in  summer  daylight  smiles, 
But  diamonds,  gained  by  blood,  alone  shoot  forth 
Their  radiance  when  the  chandeliers  disperse 
Wavering  darkness  and  the  shapes  it  broods. 
Thus  joy  and  fame,  possessed  by  others'  good, 
Shed  their  blest  beauty  o'er  our  brief  sojourn, 
While  fierce  ambition's  earthquake  ravages 
Leave  empires  blackened  by  a  nation's  gore, 
And  glooming  'neath  the  volcan  blaze  of  war. 
Stand  thou  upon  the  holy  hill  of  truth, 
And  mark  below  the  struggles  and  the  wrath, 
The  dreadful  patience  of  death's  artizans. 
Behold  the  monarch  trembling  with  the  fear 
Of  viewless  treason,  troubled  and  unblest, 
While  envy  gazes  from  afar  and  sighs. 
See  magi  erring — and  enchanters  lost 
In  their  own  labyrinths  of  fraud  revered. 
The  wanderings  of  the  wisest  and  the  fall 
Of  bravest  combatants  behold  !  and  send 
Thy  spirit  on  the  winds  o'er  every  clime 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  307 

To  weep  the  ruin  of  earth's  holiest  hopes; 

To  weep  that  folly  ministers  to  woe, 

That  weakness  reigns  with  wisdom,  and  the  blood 

Of  centuries  but  buys  a  gilded  tomb  ! 

Then  what  avails  the  voice  of  old  renown? 
The  masques  and  riotings  and  glories  past  ? 
Lived  Phalaris  the  merciless  ?  there  are, 
Who  doom  deserving  to  the  dungeon  now, 
And  chain  high  merit  to  the  felon's  wheel. 
Did  Thais,  frantic  o'er  the  maddening  bowl, 
Tempt  him  of  Macedon  to  stain  his  name 
And  in  the  torrent  flame  of  Persia's  throne 
Persepolis  consume  his  memory  ? 
OUR  FATHERS — faith's  poor  exiles,  fed 
By  Red  Men's  charity,  and  warmed  to  life 
By  their  devotion  to  unfriended  want, 
Went  forth  from  unbought  refuges  and  fired 
The  dwellings  of  the  monarchs  of  the  land  ; 
And  from  that  midnight  slaughter  all,  who  dared 
The  wreathing  flames,  fell  by  the  sword  or  ball. 
Did  the  bold  Granicus  back  to  its  fount 
In  Ida  bear  the  shrieks  of  dire  defeat, 
And  Issus  and  Arbela  wail  aloud 
O'er  satraps,  princes  and  Darius  slain  1 
Europe  through  all  her  coasts  with  terror  saw 
Destruction  sweep  o'er  Austerlitz,  and  crush 
Hispania  'neath  his  iron  foot,  and  hurl 
Embattled  nations  to  the  doom  knell'd  out 
By  the  vast  Kremlin's  Tocsin  when  his  host 
Drank  the  deep  cup  of  vengeance  to  the  dregs. 
She  saw  the  man  of  destiny  dethrone, 
Demolish  and  confound  the  crowns  of  kings, 
While  on  his  banner-bearers  in  the  the  van 
Of  desolation  hurried,  leaving  slaves  *;;i 

To  bury  their  dead  conquerors — or  die. 
Drave  Shalmaneser  from  Samaria  sacked 
And  pastoral  Naplousa's  mountain  land 
The  countless  hosts  of  conquered  Israel 
To  bondage,  martyrdom — and  buried  all 


308  ABADDON, 

Beneath  the  mysteries  of  viewless  fate? 

Careered  Sesostris  in  chariots  drawn 

By  kings  made  vassals  o'er  the  famished  realms 

Where  erst  they  reigned  in  Plenty,  Power  and  Peace  1 

Who  hath  not  wept  o'er  Poland's  utter  spoil 

And  Kosciusko  like  a  star  cast  down? 

His  country  mangled,  riven,  with  bleeding  limbs, 

Hurled  into  Hinnom,  darkened  and  devoured 

By  boyars,  starosts, — ruffian  hordes  of  chiefs — 

Banished  and  banned,  her  patriot  spirits  robbed 

Of  home  and  hope — her  throne  in  ruins  laid — 

And  tyrants  trampling  in  her  temples  armed  ! 

Through  ranks  of  victims  crucified  and  racked 

Stalked  fierce  Volesus  and  his  spirit  glowed 

With  demon  gladness  and  a  murderer's  pride  ? 

See  Marat  on  the  Greve !  or  hear  (and  quail) 

The  dying  prayers  of  Glencoe,  and  the  shrieks 

Of  Saint  Bartholomew — the  feast  of  God, 

The  holy  eve  of  heaven  !  and  yet  again 

Sicilia's  Vespers  and  the  torch  of  Favvkes 

Mark  and  compare  !  be  still  and  weep  thy  heart ! 

What  hath  been  is  and  will  be.     Seasons  change 
Their  advent  and  departure  ;  empires  fade 
And  fall  like  autumn  leaves ;  and  manners  take 
New  effigies,  and  customs  like  the  moon 
Wex,  glow  and  wane ;  and  e'en  the  steadfast  earth 
Unfolds  fresh  aspects  both  of  land  and  wave  ; 
But  man  and  man's  strange  nature  never  change. 
The  mutability  of  brief  frail  life, 
The  woes  that  weave  their  poison  in  the  threads 
Of  being,  and  the  vanity  that  sinks 
In  loathing  sickness  o'er  accomplished  fame — 
All  utter  counsel  vainly — madly  on 
Borne  by  the  whirlwind  of  o'erwening  pride, 
He  pauses  not— he  breathes  not  in  repose 
Till  the  grave  buries  pomp  and  great  renown, 
And  desert  winds  o'er  dreadful  solitudes 
Utter  their  voices — chanters  for  the  Dead ! 
What  can  avail  magnificence  and  might, 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION-  309 


Dominion  bounded  by  the  ocean's  surge, 

And  fame,  whose  herald  was  stupendous  fear  ? 

Search  Memphian  pyramids  and  mete  by  line 

Gigantic  obelisks  ;  tread  o'er  the  ground 

Where  stood  Diana's  temple,  dashed  to  earth 

In  blackened  masses  on  the  fated  night 

That  shuddered  o'er  the  birth,  in  Macedon, 

Of  the  world's  scourge  and  curse ;  or  print  thy  foot 

Among  the  ashes  of  Moriah's  mount, 

And  paint  in  burning  hues  its  day  of  doom  ; 

Dare  the  simoom  and  let  thy  voice  be  heard 

In  Tadmor's  awful  solitudes,  or  turn 

And  mourn  dismayed  in  Balbeck's  domes  of  death ; 

Toll  yet  again  the  thunder  knell  of  Rome 

And  proud  Athena,  and  let  Egypt  hear 

And  echo  back  thine  eloquence  of  thought ! 

And  what  shall  this  avail  thee,  if  thou  drink 

No  loftier  inspiration  from  the  scene 

Than  wonder  and  amaze  and  vain  romance  'i 

But  if  thou  wilt  be  wise  and  choose  thy  good, 

The  large  revealment  is  before  thee  here. 

Ruins  of  glory  teach  thee  meek  content, 

Beatitude  that  offers  silent  praise, 

And  still  content,  the  best  religion, — love, 

Untrembling  confidence  in  Him  who  holds 

The  universe  in  scales,  and  faith  prepared 

To  mingle  with  its  Fountain  at  all  hours. 

Destruction  hath  not  slept  since  fell  his  chains 

In  deep  Gehenna  at  the  fall  of  man  ; 

But  better  minds,  on  high  pursuits  intent, 

Create  and  fashion  fortune  to  their  will. 

The  outward  ill  may  torture,  and  the  strife 

Of  the  heart's  foes  may  bow  the  spirit  down, 

But  over  all  they  reign  at  last,  and  bring 

From  the  world's  wreck  and  their  own  sorrows  food 

To  nourish  Christian  meekness  for  the  skies. 

Receive  the  legacy  of  buried  years  ! 
The  thoughts  sublime  of  high  philosophy, 
The  thrilling  music  of  great  intellects. 
It  argues  but  a  helot  soul  to  pore 


310  ABADDON, 

O'er  mouldering  instruments  of  havoc — lance, 

Bowstring  and  javelin  and  catapult ; 

Or  paynim  rituals  by  Menes  framed, 

Solen  or  Numa — fittest  offered  up 

To  sculptured  deities  and  pictured  Gods. 

Holier  than  sage  sanhedrim  soared  the  thoughts 

Of  Plato  on  their  glorious  way,  and  earth 

Grew  lovelier  than  love's  bright  imagings 

Beneath  the  starry  splendour  of  his  soul. 

The  lion-hearted  son  of  Arcady, 

Diagoras  hath  shined  his  memory  too 

Deep  in  the  stainless  fountain  of  all  truth ; 

For  with  the  wanton  creed  and  faith  obscene 

And  faithless  deeds  of  Jove's  mad  worshippers 

He  held  no  commune,  but  with  martyr  voice 

Bade  Venus  bind  her  zone  and  veil  her  brow, 

And  Pallas  cast  away  her  aegis  and  no  more 

Gorge  her  beaked  eagle  with  the  blood  of  men. 

The  maniac  son  of  Semele  he  bade 

Forego  his  thyrsus,  and  no  longer  fill 

The  madden'd  brain  with  fierce  licentious  thoughts. 

Thus  in  the  council  of  his  country's  gods 

He  stood — like  Austin  by  Andraste's  shrine 

On  Stonehenge,  girdled  by  the  Druid  band, — 

And  with  a  dauntless  eloquence  portrayed 

Their  hideous  idols,  whom  their  bigots  mocked. 

Banished,  proscribed  and  with  anathemas 

Burdened,  alone  into  the  desert  passed 

The  stern  philosopher  from  bondage  free. 

And  Socrates  hath  left  his  legacy, 

The  immortal  science  of  a  heart  resolved 

To  ratify  its  greatness  in  the  hour 

Of  doom,  and  o'er  the  shrinking  dread  of  death 

Mount  like  Elijah  to  the  heaven  he  saw. 

Lo  !  what  a  hallowed  beauty  and  a  gush 

Of  soft  seraphic  beings  float  around, 

When  in  the  music  of  an  elder  day 

The  Sarnian  sage  Pythagoras  reveals 

The  inner  brightness  of  his  spirit  throned  ! 

These  in  a  gross  and  grovelling  time  gleamed  out 

• 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  311 

As  miracles  of  omen  !  and  they  stood 
Untrembling  at  the  tyrant's  judgement  seat 
And  heard,  like  Galileo  from  the  lips 
Of  Bellarmine,  the  fiat  undismayed. 

Like  them,  devoted  scholar  !  treasure  up 
The  oracles  of  nature  and  be  wise. 
Look  not  on  any  faith  with  hate  or  scorn, 
For  who  hath  throned  thee  in  the  place  of  God? 
Papist  or  Huguenot — Conde  or  Guise — 
Christian  or  Osmanlee  or  Brahma's  chief — 
Guelph  or  Gibbeline — theist  or  priest — 
Their  creeds  revered  call  not  thee  arbiter ! 
It  can  avail  thee  nought  to  sear  the  heart 
Of  blest  humanity  and  brand  the  brow 
Of  intellect  with  evil  thoughts  of  men, 
And  hoard  in  the  bright  mansion  of  young  mind 
Harsh  sentences  and  judgements  to  corrode 
The  fair  work  of  the  Deity,  whose  love 
Pervades  alike  all  nature  and  all  hearts. 
Rejoice  that  thou  art  free  to  feel  and  think 
And  utter  without  fear ;  that  human  judge 
No  more  hath  power  to  chain  thee  in  the  flame, 
Or  on  the  rack  or  sachentege.     Beware 
That  while,  with  ashes  on  thy  head,  thou  sitst 
In  penitence,  those  ashes  from  the  fires 
Of  vanity  and  pride  fall  not  to  sear 
The  soul  that  should  be  purified  by  love  ! 

Turn,  Spirit  of  my  song  !  and  gaze  with  grief 
Once  more  on  death  that  in  the  noontide  comes  ! 
Methinks,  in  crowded  solitudes  I  stand, 
At  nightfall,  by  the  serai's  darkening  walls, 
In  beautiful  Byzantium,  laved  by  seas 
Of  old  renown,  the  Euxine,  Hellespont, 
And  fair  Propontis  ;  and  the  turbanM  crowd, 
With  ataghan  and  scymitar,  pass  on 
With  hastened  steps  that  fear  yet  will  not  shun 
The  dreadful  pestilence  that  sweeps  along. 
The  distant  lights  of  Pera,  one  by  one, 


ABADDON, 

Shoot  forth,  and  the  sweet  voice  of  love's  guitar 

Comes  on  the  fragrant  yet  deathladen  air 

With  a  heartstirring  influence  and  charm 

That  melts  into  the  mind  like  childhood's  smiles. 

Below  me  lies  a  weltering  trunk,  and  yon 

The  headsman  sheathes  his  kinskal  to  relight 

His  quenched  chibouque,  and  drops  into  the  dust 

The  hoar  head  of  the  Hospodar.     Along 

The  colonnades  move  slow  the  Soldan's  guards 

Silent  and  waiting  death  they  dare  not  fear. 

The  wan  moon  o'er  the  Bosphorus  ascends 

With  sicklied  lustre,  and  her  mournful  smiles 

Rest  on  the  countless  monuments  that  throng 

Byzantium's  land  of  burial ;  and  methinks 

The  solemn  cypress  trees  do  moan  the  dirge 

Of  all  the  morning  sun  shall  see  entombed. 

In  stillness  flies  the  pestilence;  aud  prince 

And  slave  lie  writhing  for  an  awful  hour, 

And  perish ;  and  the  merchant's  crowded  mart 

Of  loveliness  from  fair  Circassia's  vale 

Will  open  on  the  morrow  to  convey 

Beauty  unto  her  bridal  in  the  tomb. 

Life's  breath  is  here  extinction :  moments  grasp 

A  thousand  destinies ;  and  funerals  glide 

Like  evening  shadows  by,  as  thick  and  fast; 

And  up  the  ladder  of  the  dead  methinks 

I  see  the  votaries  of  Islam  pass, 

In  silent  shadowy  multitudes,  to  lay 

The  idols  of  the  heart's  worship  where  no  more 

Bereavement  and  lone  widowhood  of  hope 

Pour  earth's  deep  night  o'er  visions  of  the  blest. 

Woe  sits  in  every  threshold  ;  and  the  hour 

Of  prayer,  by  struck  muezzin  call'd  in  vain, 

Passes  without  a  voice  ascending  up. 

O  night  and  pestilence !  and  doubt  and  death  ! 

How  terribly  distinct  the  heart-pulse  throbs, 

That  soon  may  cease  !  as  through  the  quivering  gloom, 

The  quickened  vision  glances  on  the  shade' 

Of  fierce  ABADDON'S  form  that  hurries  by! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION.  313 

— Anark  and  Rioter  in  myriad  woes ! 
The  fierce  orgasms  of  maddened  agony 
Have  been  to  thee  electric  ecstacy, 
Demoniac  rapture — since  the  smile  of  God 
Was  clouded  by  despair  that  weds  with  crime. 
Before  thee  sink  the  Beautiful — the  Bard, 
Wasted  in  youth  and  in  his  flower  age  seared 
By  the  world's  samiel  and  his  own  quick  thoughts  ! 
The  hero  on  the  bosom  of  renown  ! 
The  suneyed  child  whose  being  is  a  bliss ! 
The  virgin  in  her  loveliness — the  son 
Of  many  hopes  and  dreams  sublime  of  love, 
When  the  first  dawnings  of  his  fame  gleam'd  out ! 
The  mightiest  armies  of  the  dead  rise  not 
From  gory  battlefield  or  lava  seas, 
Drowning  still  cities  in  deep  floods  of  fire, 
Or  earthquakes  yawning  to  profoundest  depths, 
Or  tempest,  or  crusade,  or  ghastly  plague. 
Deeper  than  the  rent  banners  of  the  slain 
Was  steeped  the  soul  of  Caesar  in  men's  blood  ; 
And  Attila  from  Chalons'  streaming  plain, 
Heaped  with  its  hecatombs  of  victims,  fled 
Before  Theodric  with  a  heart  afloat 
In  gore  of  Hun  and  Goth.     Judea's  soil 
Grew  rank  in  richness  o'er  the  sacrifice 
Chivalric  monarchs,  led  by  bigot  wrath. 
Offered  to  Saladin  and  the  Sepulchre. 
Lo !  awful  Victory  o'er  seas  of  blood 
Waving  her  standard,  while  the  world  contends 
On  Zama,  Cannse,  Waterloo,  made  rich 
By  human  hearts  forever  pierced  in  vain  ! 
But  Persecution  hath  a  wider  range, 
An  ampler  spoil  than  these ;  lo !  from  the  roll 
Of  Record  starts  the  pallid  student  up 
And  cries — "  Thou  prince  of  justice  and  of  peace  ! 
"  Wolves  ravin  in  thy  fold,  and  mercy  shrieks 
"  In  vain  for  succour  while  the  guiltless  die  ! 
"  Familiar  and  inquisitor  and  doom  ! 
"  Apostle,  prophet,  martyr — child  and  eld  ! 
"Freedom  and  shackles  and  the  axe  upraised 
40 


314  ABADDON. 

"  Red  with  the  life  of  Hampden,  Sydney,  More  ! 

'•  Tyrants  and  parricides  and  length  of  years, 

"  Ismael,  Aurung-Zebe  and  Tamerlane  ! 

"  Oh,  the  soul  sickens  o'er  the  scroll  of  fame, 

"  The  just  man's  wrongs,  the  widow's  unseen  tears, 

"The  orphan's  helpless  woes,  the  tyrant's  power, 

"  The  pride  of  Mammon,  and  the  painted  brow 

"  Of  hypocrites  exulting  o'er  their  prey. 

"  God  of  the  guiltless  !  in  Peru's  dark  mines 

"  Her  kings  dig  gold  for  murderers  !  and  see 

"  Assassins  goading  to  the  Oregon 

"  The  ancient  sovereigns  of  our  plundered  realm  !" 

Thus  deems  the  nobler  mind,  intent  to  delve 
For  knowledge  and  yet  shuddering  o'er  its  toil. 
Thus  vanish  generations  down  the  gulf 
That  opens  to  Eternity,  and  thus 
The  Fiend  of  Ruin  wastes  a  dreaming  world. 

But  there  shall  come  an  hour  when  truth  shall  stand 
Upon  the  mountain  and  declare  to  earth 
Her  seraph  oracles ;  when  Love  shall  thrill 
Each  bosom  wedded  to  the  world's  wide  joy, 
And  image  in  the  fountain  of  the  soul 
The  universal  bliss ;  when  Faith  shall  roam 
On  lovelier  meads  and  hills  with  glory  clothed, 
O'er  whose  bright  summits  rainbows  rest  in  heaven, 
And  over  the  charmed  universe  of  thought 
Pour  its  pure  radiance  from  the  shrine  of  God. 
Then,  cries  the  Vision  of  the  banished  saint, 
In  deep  Gehenna's  darkest  depth  again 
Shall  writhe  in  adamantine  manacles 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  DESTRUCTION,  and  no  more 
Vainly  appeal  pale  Famine's  hollow  eye, 
Or  broken  voice  of  burning  Pestilence, 
Or  unheard  groans  of  battle  raging  on. 
But  dove-eyed  Peace  shall  float  on  snowy  wings 
O'er  nations  banded  in  each  other's  love, 
And  the  free  souls  of  Heaven's  blest  children  flow 
In  light  and  love  o'er  earth  and  rest  in  God ! 


TO    ISO  LIN  A. 


To  be  wroth  with  those  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

Coleridge. 

Oh  !  must  it  be  so  ?     Must  thine  image  be, 
Through  the  long  lapse  of  all  my  future  years, 

A  madness  and  a  mockery  to  me, 

That  glows  amid  my  heart's  corroding  tears? 

Must  we  in  anger  part — forever  part, 

Without  one  solace  for  the  bleeding  heart  1 

I  loved  thee,  maiden  ! — 't  is  no  shame  to  own — 
Deeply  as  loves  the  heart-sear'd  hermit  saint, 

The  highest,  purest  star  that  gleams  alone 

In  the  blue  depths  of  heaven,  which  none  may  paint; 

I  loved  thee  as  the  bulbul  loves  the  flower, 

That  blooms  and  breathes  and  withers  in  an  hour. 

E'en  now  I  turn,  and  o'er  the  waste  of  years, 
A  broken  spirit  and  a  bruised  heart,  trace 

The  charm,  the  magic  of  thy  smiles  and  tears, 
The  heaven  that  met  me  in  thy  soft,  sweet  face ; 

And  still  to  thee  my  crushed  affections  rise 

Like  holiest  incense  o'er  the  evening  skies. 

When  first  we  met  and  looked,  and  loved,  the  past 
With  all  its  perils  vanished  from  my  brain  ; 

Thy  form  was  like  the  Peri  of  the  waste 
Whose  smile  is  heaven  in  a  world  of  pain — 

Alas !  't  was  but  the  radiance  of  a  dream 

That  left  me  woe  in  its  departing  gleam. 


316  TO  1SOL1NA. 

Thy  blessing  was  the  blight  of  life's  best  hours; 

Thy  soft  embrace  the  serpent's  deadly  wreath  ; 
Thy  kiss,  a  poison  hid  in  heavenly  flowers, 

Thy  look  breathed  madness  and  thy  voice  spake  death. 
How  couldst  thou  rend  the  heart  thou  wouldst  not  kill  ? 
Why  bid  me  part — yet  kiss  and  linger  still? 

Why  fold  thy  snowy  arms  around  a  heart 
Thy  quick  unkindness  filPd  with  utter  woe  ? 

Why  to  my  soul  elysian  bliss  impart, 
Life's  lingering  anguish  only  to  bestow  ? 

Why  bid  me  hope — to  feel  the  last  despair  ? 

Point  me  to  heaven — when  hell  alone  was  there? 

0  Isolina !  thou  wert  made  as  fair 

As  Azrael,  ere  the  withering  bolt  was  hurled, 
That  pierc'd  the  seraph  with  a  fiend's  despair, 

And  drave  him — dark  destroyer,  o'er  the  world  ! 
Thou  wert  as  lovely  as  that  eastern  flower, 
Who  touches,  droops,  and  dies  within  an  hour. 

1  deemed  thee  all  the  poet  loves  to  paint — 

Full  of  young  loveliness  and  virgin  love, 
In  soul  an  angel  and  in  heart  a  saint, 

Earth's  fair  inhabitant,  but  born  above ; 
I  may  not  think — I  dare  not  tell  thee  now 
What  my  heart  murmurs  o'er  thy  broken  vow. 

Hadst  thou  been  all  my  trusting  heart  believ'd  thee, 

I  had  not  loved  as  I  do  hate  thee  now ; 
Oh  !  hadst  thou  never  in  thy  pride  deceived  me, 

I  had  not  blessed  as  I  do  curse  the  vow 
My  willing  homage  to  the  syren  paid, 
Who  heard  and  smiled— who  listened  and  betrayed. 

Farewell !  the  voice  of  all  confiding  Truth 
No  more  salutes  me  on  my  wandering  way; 

Farewell!  the  morning  glory  of  my  youth 
Already  darkens  in  Earth's  troubled  day ; 

Farewell !  I  loved  thee  as  a  dream  of  heaven — 

Pissolved  in  darkness  at  the  moment  given. 


TO  1SOL1NA.  317 

We  part — not  as  we  met  in  other  hours, 
Radiant  with  love  and  rapture's  magic  glow, 

But  blighted — broken — and  our  passion's  powers 
Linked  in  a  living  web  of  fear  and  woe  ! 

Alas  !  the  erring  of  my  own  heart  throws 

Its  thoughts  o'er  thee  ! — blest  be  thy  calm  repose  ! 

Sleep,  Isolina  !  and  bright  dreams  be  thine 

Of  triumph  o'er  a  heart  that  throbbed  and  bled 

Alone  for  thee,  with  passion  too  divine 
To  doubt — till  love  and  every  hope  had  fled  ; 

On  the  dark  wreck  enjoy  thy  placid  sleep, 

And  mayst  thou  never — never  wake  to  weep ! 

Once  more,  farewell!  my  barque  is  on  the  main, 

My  native  land  is  o'er  the  stormy  sea ; 
I  cannot  tear  from  out  my  heart  and  brain 

One  thought  to  leave  behind — save  agony  ! 
Farewell !  may  Memory  in  thy  soul  expire, 
And  Hope  attend  thee  with  her  golden  lyre. 


O  Thou  !  the  present  and  the  Past, 
The  Future,  the  Eternal  Lord ! 
Whose  every  breath  can  bless  or  blast, 
Teach  me  the  council  of  Thy  Word ! 

While  friends  forsake,  and  foes  oppress, 
And  Time  is  veiPd  in  storms  of  gloom, 
Teach  me  that  one  great  happiness 
That  lives  beyond  the  mouldering  tomb ! 

<li»  • 

My  errors,  faults  and  sins  forgive ! 
Lighten  my  path  and  cheer  my  heart ! 
In  Thee,  to  Thee  I  only  live—     i 
Thou  the  Supreme  and  Righteous  art ! 


THE    LAY   OF   THE   COLONIST. 

On  the  rude  threshold  of  his  woodland  cot, 
When  the  sun  turned  the  western  sky  to  gold, 
Wrapt  in  dark  musings  on  his  wayward  lot, 
And  joys  long  past  that  o'er  his  spirit  rolled, 
Stern  in  his  faith,  though  sorrow  marked  his  mein, 
The  exile  stood — the  genius  of  the  scene  ! 

Unbounded,  solitary,  dark  and  deep, 
The  mountain  forests  lowered  around  and  threw 
Their  solemn  shadows  o'er  the  craggy  steep, 
Where  human  foot  had  never  brushed  the  dew; 
And  through  the  tangled  maze  of  wildwoods  run 
Streams,  whose  swift  waves  ne'er  glittered  in  the  sun. 

O'er  the  vast  sea  of  this  green  solitude 

No  wreathing  smoke  from  distant  cottage  rose ; 

No  wellknown  voice  came  singing  through  the  wood — 

No  form  beloved  tracked  o'er  the  winter  snows, 

Or  sunny  summer  hillside,  glad  to  seek 

And  find  a  friend  to  cheer  him  once  a-week. 

Unbroken  there  was  life's  lone  sleep,  save  when 
The  moose  or  panther  yelled  along  his  way, 
Or  the  wolf  prowled  and  ravined  through  the  glen, 
Or,  high  in  air,  the  eagle  screamed  for  prey; 
The  Indian's  arrow  had  a  noiseless  flight, 
More  dark  and  deadly  than  a  monarch's  might. 

Oft  lonely  barrows  on  the  woody  plain 

Alone  revealed  that  mortal  things  had  been  ; 

That  here  red  warriors,  in  their  slaughter  slain, 

Reposed  in  glory  on  the  conquering  scene 

Of  their  high  valour ;  and  their  fated  fame 

Hath  left  them  not  on  earth  a  record — or  a  name. 


( 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  COLONIST.  '       319 

But  soon  the  whirring  arrow,  stained  with  blood, 
Gave  fearful  warning  vengeance  slept  not  here — 
That  he,  who  threaded   thus  the  mazy  wood, 
And  slew  faroffthe  wild  and  timorous  deer, 
Had  darts  within  his  quiver  stored  to  bear 
Death  to  the  white  man  through  the  silent  air. 

Mid  the  dense  gloom  of  nature's  forest-woof 
The  exile  stood,  who  erst  in  pomp  abode  ; 
Rude  was  the  cottage,  with  its  leaf-thatched  roof, 
Where  dwelt  the  Puritan — alone  with  God  ; — 
There  terror  oft  through   nights  of  cold  unrest 
Counted  the  pulse  of  many  a  trembling  breast. 

In  the  vast  wilderness,  afar  removed 

From  scenes  more  blest  than  happy  hearts  can  tell, 

Torn  from  the  bosoms  of  the  friends  he  loved 

Too  fervently  to  bid  a  last  farewell ; 

Here,  at  the  hour  when  hearts  breathe  far  away 

Their  music — thus  the  Exile  poured  his  lay : — 

"  Mysterious  are  thy  ways,  Almighty  One  ! 
And  dark  the  shades  that  veil  thy  throne  of  light, 
But  still  to  thee  we  bow — thy  will  be  done — 
For  human  pride  leaves  erring  man  in  night ; 
To  thee  we  make  our  still  and  solemn  prayer — 
Be  thou  our  Sun  and  every  scene  is  fair ! 

"  When  from  oppression,  crowned  and  mitred,  Lord  I 
We  fled — a  faint  band — o'er  the  Atlantic  main, 
Thou  wert  our  refuge — thou,  our  shield  and  sword — 
Our  light  in  gloom — our  comforter  in  pain  ; 
Thy  smile  beamed  brighter  on  our  woodland  shed 
Than  all  earth's  glory  on  a  regal  head. 

"  And  oft,  amid  the  darkness  and  the  fears 
Of  them  thy  goodness  gave  to  share  my  lot, 
Thou  hast  in  mercy  listened  to  the  tears 
Of  love  and  innocence  in  this  rude  cot, 
And  filled  pale  lips  with  bread,  and  the  raised  arm 
Of  murder  palsied  ere  its  wrath  could  harm. 

_•• 


320  THE  LAY  OF  THE  COLONIST. 

"  When  through  the  unbarred  window  on  our  bed 
The  famishing  bear  hath  looked — or  to  our  hearth 
The  tiger  sprung  to  tear  the  babe — or  red 
The  hatchet  gleamed  along  the  glade;  on  earth, 
Ev'n  as  in  Eden,  thoa  hast  walked  in  power, 
And  saved  us  in  the  dark  and  trying  hour. 

"When,  gathered  round  the  winter  fire,  whose  flames 
The  cold  gale,  howling  through  the  cottage,  fanned, 
We  talked  o'er  distant  loved  and  honoured  names, 
And  sighed  to  think  upon  our  native  land, 
Thy  still,  small  voice  was  heard — '  The  same  God  here 
Beholds  thee  as  thy  friends  beloved  and  dear/ 

"  Thus  hast  Thou  been  our  comfort — Thou,  for  whom 
We  left  the  land — loved  land!  that  gave  us  birth, 
And  sought  these  shores  of  savageness  and  gloom, 
Cold,  faint  and  sick — the  exiles  of  the  earth  ! 
We  heard  thy  summons,  Lord !  and  here  we  are, 
Beneath  New  England's  coldest  northern  star. 

"  Softly  beneath  thine  all-protecting  smile 
Hath  been  our  sleep  in  perils  dire — and  on 
The  stormy  waters  and  the  rugged  soil 
Thy  blessing  hath  descended,  and  thy  sun 
Hath  unto  us  such  gladdening  harvests  given 
As  erst  came  down  on  Zin  from  pitying  heaven. 

"  Narrow  and  dark  through  this  entangled  shade 
Our  winding  paths  o'er  cliffs  and  moors  must  be  ; 
But  bright  with  verdure  is  our  lovely  glade, 
And  from  its  temple  soar  our  prayers  to  Thee ; 
And  here,  though  danger  point  the  poisoned  dart, 
We  wear  a  charm,  true  faith,  within  the  heart. 

"The  radiant  sun,  thy  glorious  work,  O  Lord ! 
Fades  from  the  West  and  lights  the  moon  on  high  j 
As  they,  who  trust  in  thy  most  holy  word, 
Catch  light  and  glory  from  the  blessed  sky  ; 
And  even  here  amid  the  forest's  gloom 
We  breathe  the  blessing  of  the  life  to  come  !" 


THE  DIRGE.  321 

The  exile  turned  and  entered  to  his  home, 

Blest  with  the  view  his  pious  soul  had  caught 

Of  heaven's  mysterious  ways — and  o'er  him  come, 

As  through  his  mind  roll  living  streams  of  thought, 

Such  gleams  of  joy  as  ever  must  arise 

From  his  pure  heart  who  worships  at  the  skies. 

Irreverent  sons  of  Plymouth's  pilgrim  band  ! 

Approach  not  them  ye  will  not  to  revere  ! 

The  wandering  fathers  of  this  mighty  land 

Contemplate  thou  with  reverence  and  fear; 

Heir  of  the  Faithful !  let  thy  bosom  take  «.~ 

The  faith  that  dared  the  exile  and  the  stake ! 


THE    DIRGE, 


WEEP  not  thou  for  the  dead  ! 
Sweet  are  their  dreamless  slumbers  in  the  tomb— 
Their  eyelids  move  not  in  the  morning's  light, 
No  sun  breaks  on  the  solitary  gloom, 
No  sound  disturbs  the  silence  of  their  night- 
Soft  seems  their  lowly  bed  ! 

Grieve  not  for  them,  whose  days 
Of  earthly  durance  have  so  quickly  passed,— 
Who  feel  no  more  affliction's  iron  chain  ! 
Sigh  not  for  them  who  long  since  sighed  their  last, 
Never  to  taste  of  sin  and  woe  again 

In  realms  of  joy  and  praise! 

41 


322  THE  DIRGE. 

What  they  were  once  to  thee 
It  nought  avails  to  think — save  thou  canst  draw 
Pure  thoughts  of  piety,  and  peace,  and  love, 
And  reverent  faith  in  heaven's  eternal  law, 
From  their  soft  teachings,  ere  they  soared  above, 

Lost  in  Eternity  ! 

When  o'er  the  pallid  brow 

Death  flings  his  shadow — and  the  pale,  cold  cheek 
Quivers,  and  light  forsakes  the  upturned  eye, 
And  the  voice  fails  ere  faltering  lips  can  speak 
The  last  farewell — be  not  dismayed — to  die 

Is  man's  last  lot  below  ! 

Death  o'er  the  world  hath  passed 
Oft,  and  the  charnel  closed  in  silence  o'er 
Unnumbered  generations — past  and  gone  ! 
And  he  will  reign  till  Earth  can  hold  no  more — 
Till  Time,  shall  sink  beneath  the  Eternal  Throne, 

And  Heaven  receive  its  last. 

Death  enters  at  our  birth 
The  moulded  form  we  idolize  so  much, 
And  hour  by  hour  some  subtle  thread  dissolves, 
That  links  the  web  of  life — at  his  cold  touch 
Power  after  power  decays  as  time  revolves, 

Till  earth  is  blent  with  earth. 

The  soul  cannot  abide 
In  the  dark  dreariness  of  flesh  and  sin  ,* — 
Its  powers  are  chained  and  trampled  on  by  clay, 
And  paralyzed  and  crushed  ;  't  would  enter  in 
Its  own  pure  heaven,  where  passion's  disarray 

Comes  not,  nor  hate  nor  pride. 

Corne,  widowed  one  !  with  me, 
And  we  will  wander  through  the  shades  of  death ! 
Look  now  upon  those  sheeted  forms  that  soar 
Amid  the  still  and  rosy  air !  their  breath 
Wafts  the  rich  fragrance  of  heaven's  flowery  shore- 

Amid  the  light  of  Deity  ! 


THE  DIRGE,  "323 

Would'st  thou  wail  o'er  their  flight? 
Or  curb  their  pinions  with  the  chains  of  Time'? 
Art  thou  or  canst  thou  be  so  happy  here, 
Thy  spirit  pants  not  for  a  fairer  clime? 
O,  sorrowing  child  of  sin,  and  doubt,  and  fear! 

Thy  heart  knows  no  delight. 

Would?st  thou  roll  back  the  waves 
Of  the  unfathomed  ocean  of  the  Past, 
And  from  soft  slumbers  wake  the  undreaming  Dead, 
Again  to  shiver  in  the  bleak,  cold  blast, 
Again  the  desert  of  despair  to  tread, 

And  mourn  their  peaceful  graves? 

Ah,  no  ! — forget  them  not ! 
Thoughts  of  the  dead  incite  to  worthy  deeds, 
Or  from  the  paths  of  lawless  ill  deter; 
When  the  lone  heart  in  silent  sorrow  bleeds, 
Or  sin  entices — to  the  past  recur — 

Trust  heaven  !  thou  wilt  not  be  forgot ! 

Weep  not  for  them  who  leave 
In  childhood's  sinless  hours  the  haunts  of  vice ! 
Mourn  not  the  Lovely  in  their  bloom  restored 
To  the  bright  bowers  of  their  own  paradise! 
Mourn  not  the  Good  who  meet  their  honoured  Lord 

Where  they  no  more  can  grieve ! 

But  rather  weep  and  mourn 
That  thou  art  yet  a  sinning  child  of  dust, 
Changeful  as  April  skies  or  fortune's  brow ; 
And,  while  thy  grief  prevails,  be  wise,  and  just, 
And  kind — so  thou  shalt  die  like  flowers  that  blow, 

And  into  rose-air  turn. 


A  MONODY. 


WHEN  first  I  drank  thy  starlight  smile,  and  revelled  in  thy  love, 
How  could  I  know  that  thou  wert  here,  but  as  a  pilgrim  dove? 
How  could  I  think  that  thou  wouldst  part  and  vanish  like  a  star, 
And  leave  me  here  alone  to  weep,  when  thou  hadst  fled  afar? 

'     ' ,      ,   .    '•  '.    ',, 

Thou  wert  to  me  so  dear,  I  felt  as  if  shut  out  of  heaven, 

When  death  came  o'er  thy  beauty,  like  a  cloud  o'er  summer  even; 

And  many  a  time  in  solitude,  in  malady  and  sorrow, 

My  heart  hath  turned  to  yesterday,  and  quail'd  to  meet  tomorrow. 

When  in  the  silent  sanctity  of  Love's  own  holy  sky, 
We  fondly  talked  of  days  to  come,  I  thought  not  thou  couldst  die; 
Ev'n  while  I  gaz'd  upon  thy  fixed,  yet  lovely  look  in  death, 
I  kissed  thy  lips  and  started — for  I  met  no  answering  breath. 

Though  day  by  day  I  saw  thee  fade — I  dare  not  ponder  now ! — 
Though  the  fire  of  death  was  on  thy  cheek — its  blight  upon  thy 

brow; 
Though  words,  that  turned  my  heart  to  tears,  oft  from  thy  pale  lips 

fell, 
I  thought  not  thou  wert  doomed  to  die — I  could  not  say  farewell ! 

I  knew  thou  wert  too  pure  to  dwell  amid  the  sins  of  earth — 
Too  high,  too  holy,  to  enjoy  its  follies  and  its  mirth. 
But,  oh !  I  trusted  thou  wouldst  live  that  I  might  daily  see 
And  love  the  holiness  of  heaven,  so  imaged  out  in  thee. 

So  long  in  sorrow  I  had  flown  to  seek  thee  in  thy  bower, 
I  could  riot  bear  the  solitude  of  desolation's  hour, 
The  utter  gloom,  the  emptiness,  the  silence  never  broken; 
Where  all  was  music,  life,  and  love — though  oft  no  word  was  spo 
ken. 


A   MOA'ODV.  3^5 

The  light  of  stars — the  melody  of  bosk)*  brooks  were  tnine, 
A  heart  that  breathed  the  bloom  of  bliss — a  spirit  all  divine : 
In  sacred  song,  or  antique  lore,  or  wisdom  daily  shown, 
Thy  mind  was  like  the  glorious  sun  descending  from  his  throne. 

Our  meeting  was  in  hope  and  bliss — our  parting  in  despair; 
And  when  I  saw  the  shade  of  death  glide  o'er  thy  features  fair, 
And  raised  thy  cold  face  from  my  breast  to  lay  thee  with  the  dead, 
I  wept  not — sighed  not — but  I  felt  that  all  earth's  charm  had  fled. 

I  never  thought  that  I  should  see  thine  eyelids  shut  in  death ; 
Thy  bright  brow  cold — thy  spirit  quenched,  that  glowed  and  bloom 
ed  beneath ; 

I  never  thought  to  lay  thee  down,  in  thine  unwedded  grave, 
With  the  chill  hand  of  that  despair,  which  could  not — could  not 
save! 
- ." . 

But  disappointment  long  hath  cast  desertion  o'er  my  days, 
And  many  a  dreary  ruin  lies  in  all  my  wandering  ways; 
In  moody  moments  I  have  thought  a  spell  was  on  my  name — 
My  love  hath  ever  been  unblest — I  seek  not  phantom  fame. 


But  peerless  Beauty's  syren  song  and  Grandeur's  pride  of  power 

Could  not  together  win  me  from  the  memory  of  one  hour; 

For  well  I  know,  where'er   thy  home,  thou  wilt  come   down  to 

soothe 
The  solitude  and  grief  that  cloud  the  morning  of  my  youth. 

Farewell,  Luzelia  !  oh,  farewell !  I  may  not  linger  long 

To  greet  thy  kindred  spirit  with  a  slow  and  solemn  song, 

But,  like  the  star  beside  the  moon,  on  a  still  summer  even, 

I  '11  mingle  with  thy  brightness,  Love !  and  follow  thee  to  heaven  ! 


GLENDALOCH.* 

• 

HERE  where  Time's  pillar'd  tower,  sublime  and  vast, 
Lifts  to  the  skies  its  hoar  and  awful  brow, 
And  seems  to  moan  and  mutter  o'er  the  waste 
Passion's  wild  horror  and  Despair's  last  vow, 
While  Night  o'er  heathy  hills,  and  moors  below, 
Sinks  like  Death's  shadow  on  the  slumbering  brain, 
And  Avonmore's  deep  torrent  voice  of  woe 
Roars  like  the  howl  of  ghosts  on  battle  plain, — 
I  stand  alone  and  gaze  o'er  centuries  of  pain. 

Here  rose  the  incense  of  unhallowed  rites 
When  startling  Horror  was  the  wild  man's  god  ; 
The  dusky  glen  laughed  wild  'neath  ghastly  lights, 
The  cavern  altar  shook  its  blaze  abroad, 
And  idol  worshippers  in  quick  blood  trod ! 
Pity  beheld, — her  only  voice  was  tears, — 
Truth  whispered  vainly  from  the  gory  sod, — 
While  reigned  the  Daemon  in  onutter'd  fears, 
Shrieking  redeemless  woe  from  all  the  darkened  spheres. 

Here  Shiloh's  glory  gleamed  on  midnight  minds, 

And  Fable  feigned  when  Oracles  were  still; 

Music  and  prophecy  were  in  the  winds, 

Saints  in  the  vale  and  sages  on  the  hill, 

And  angels  passive  to  the  voiceless  will; 

Leaves  had  their  missions, — waters  held  a  power 

Of  bale  or  bliss,  and  fearful  hearts  did  thrill 

Beneath  the  unseen  influence  of  the  hour 

When  darkness  clomb  the  mount  and  storms  began  (o  lower. 

*  For  a  minute  and  learned  account  of  this  romantic  ruin  in  Wicklow,  Ireland,  set* 
J)r.  Ledwick,  and  Carr's  "Stranger  in  Ireland." 


GLENUALOGH.  327 

When  Evil  entered  man's  o'ermastered  heart 

The  savage  wrath  of  beasts  revealed  his  fall, 

And  Hate  and  Envy,  each  his  bitter  part, 

Pursued  in  him,  who  on  the  azure  wall 

Of  Eden  saw  his  doom, — yet  knew  not  all ! 

Knew  not  that  Truth  should  perish  for  Deceit, 

And  Love  for  Mammon, — and  that  Peace  should  call 

GOD'S  own  adorers  at  His  shrine  to  meet 

In  vain  while  zealots  warr'd  and  spurn'd  her  to  their  feet ! 

This,  old  Glendaloch  !  thou  too  oft  hast  seen ! 

Pagan  or  catholic,  Power  wields  the  doom, 

And  Passion  tramples  over  what  hath  been, 

And  Pride  vaunts  empire  o'er  the  martyr's  tomb. 

E'en  now  strange  beings  mingle  with  thy  gloom, 

And  wild  Glendasan,  as  it  plunges,  shrieks 

Amid  thy  holy  ruin's  dreadful  womb, 

And  every  vast  tree  from  its  foliage  speaks, 

And  from  the  starless  heaven  the  crashing  thunder  breaks. 

Faith  without  knowledge  every  arch  and  nook 
Hath  robed  with  sanctity ;  the  sculptured  nave, 
The  vaulted  cloister,  where  the  sable  rook 
And  owlet  moan  and  croak;  the  mouldered  grave, 
And  every  idle  stone!     What  deeper  slave 
Clanks  his  cold  fetters  in  unguerdoned  toil 
Than  bigot  Pride,  that  cannot  cease  to  crave 
Poison,  and  consecrates  each  dusky  aisle 

Where   every  creed  was  preached — save   Heaven's   unchanging 
smile. 

Banished  to  deserts  and  the  caves  of  earth,  t 

With  austere  eye  and  form  by  penance  scarr'd, 

How  should  thy  charms  win  man  to  Heaven's  high  birth, 

Religion  !  when  thy  golden  gates  are  barr'd  ? 

Greater  than  all  is  thy  supreme  reward 

Both  in  thyself  and  nature  and  the  Love, 

That  gives  and  gains  new  beauty !  with  the  bard 

To  Avonmore,  to  fair  Avoca's  grove 

Go,  worship  in  the  sun  and  GOD'S  own  blessing  prove ! 


328  SONNET. 


Go,  mantle  all  things  with  a  holy  hope, 

The  spirit  of  a  prophecy  benign, 

A  blessedness  and  beauty;  on  the  slope 

Of  newmown  hillside,  'neath  the  bowery  vine, 

Or  by  the  clear  brook's  margent, —  all  are  thine  ! 

And  it  were  wise  to  give  thy  free  soul  up 

To  quick  imaginings  and  thoughts  divine, 

With  living  flowers  in  grassy  meads  to  sup, 

And  hear  mind's  beings  laugh  in  every  bluebell's  cup. 

But  sink,  thou  monkish  monument !  and  ye, 

Gray,  ghastly  ruins  of  a  faith  blasphemed  ! 

It  is  not  thus  thy  sons  should  worship  THEE, 

Whose  name  is  LOVE;  nor  have  I  idly  dreamed, 

But  drank  the  glory  that  on  me  hath  gleamed, 

And  sought  in  GOD'S  own  works  his  pleasure  best. 

Not  in  vain  temples,  have  I  ever  deemed, 

Dwells  the  Great  Spirit,  but  His  holiest  rest 

Must  be  upon  the  throne  of  youth's  still  thoughtful  breast, 

"          ,  ''»•''    ''     '    i-V.    '     *    .*.    '•'       : 

..,'.•  .'••;.-•• 

SONNET. 


WHY  thus,  with  mournful  thought  and  tears  and  sighs. 
Hail'st  thou,  my  spirit!  the  sweet  autumn  hours? 
Why  fall  the  anthem  strains  of  shadowy  bowers 
Unfelt,  that  had  communion  with  the  skies  ? 
Why  fade  the  glories  of  the  sunset  now, 
Why  drop  the  rainbow  leaves  upon  my  track 
Unmarked  ?  Pale  phantom  thought  looks  back 
Through  tears,  on  what  hath  been,  and  from  my  brow 
The  glorious  dayspring  of  my  life  hath  fled  ! 
Trial  and  grief,  bereavement  and  the  throes 
Of  an  overburdened,  injured  spirit's  woes, 
Companionless,  have  left  me  with  the  dead  ; 
Father,  son,  sister,  life,  hope,  light  have  gone — 
Why  o'er  Earth's  desert  should  /struggle  on? 


PHANTASIE. 


}T  WAS  the  deep  noon  of  night ;  I  slept  and  dreamed  ; — 

On  the  fair  bosom  of  a  lawn,  methought, 

Flowery  and  green,  and  girdled  by  fresh  rills, 

Silvery  and  musical,  that  purled  along 

In  mellow  cadence  like  the  cloudless  days 

Of  early  youth  and  inexperienced  love, 

I  lay  in  the  soft  sunlight,  that  did  bloom 

And  wanton  in  the  aromatic  air 

So  tenderly  transparent  and  so  mild, 

It  floated  o'er  me  as  on  angel  wings. 

The  loveliest  creatures  were  around  me,  flocks 

Of  birds,  whose  plumage  in  the  pale  blue  sky 

Glittered  like  stars  through  clouds,  and  whose  gay  songs 

Like  spirit  voices  fell  upon  the  soul 

Beautifully  sweet  and  full  of  love  and  praise. 

All  the  fair  forms  of  nature  were  in  joy, 

And  Earth  was  revelling  in  the  smiles  of  Heaven. 

o 

My  heart  was  rife  with  blessedness — I  caught 
The  freshest  bloom  of  opening  buds  and  breathed 
The  odour  of  the  poetry  that  flowed, 
Like  clearest  waters,  through  unbounded  realms, 
And  thought  that  yet  my  heart  might  trust  in  hope 
Of  days  less  evil  than  my  birth  star  doomed. 

That  vision  passed;  a  wildering  dream  ensued: 
Methought  I  had  no  being,  and  that  all  ,.  J^.i 

The  beautiful  diversities  and  charms, 
The  panorama  of  this  wondrous  world, 
Were  but  imagination's  tricksy  work, 
The  illusions  of  a  Spirit  malcontent. 
42 


330  PHANTASIK. 

To  palpable  appearances  and  shapes 
Wrought  by  the  magic  of  the  mind  to  suit 
The  pilgrim  wanderings  and  wayward  freaks 
Of  my  distempered  mood.     The  mighty  Sun, 
Voyaging  upon  his  bright  and  glorious  way, 
The  fair,  round  melancholy  Moon,  the  Stars, 
The  eyes  of  Heaven  o'er  all  God's  Universe, 
The  green  and  bloomy  Earth — blest  far  beyond 
The  meed  of  its  indwellers — all  did  seem 
But  phantoms  of  my  thought,  unreal  things 
To  be  dissolved  like  vain  and  feverish  dreams. 

Long,  lingering  hours  of  dim  incertitude  ! 
Now  I  was  wedged  amid  'the  icy  cliffs 
And  glaciers  of  Monadnock ;  now  I  heard 
The  sealike  waters  of  Missouri  roll 
And  rush  and  roar  above  me  as  I  gasped 
For  breath  and  eddied  with  the  torrent  flood ; 
By  Chimborazo's  crater  I  was  chain'd, 
Doomed  to  the  death  of  ages,  while  the  fires 
Wreathed  round  me  in  the  terror  of  their  pride. 
Yet  I  was  conscious  of  a  sovereign  power, 
But  could  not  grasp  it,  such  a  mountain  lay 
Upon  my  heart  and  bore  me  down  to  earth, 
Like  the  all-potent  one  of  olden  time 
Who  wreaked  on  darkness  his  immortal  might. 
With  unirnagined  pain  I  raised  my  eye, 
That  roll'd  in  agony's  delirium, 
On  the  strange  unreality — the  deep 
And  cloudy  nothingness,  and  lo!  around 
A  dark  and  rugged  battlement  that  pierced 
The  midnight  skies !  gigantic  forms  and  shapes 
Titanic,  sons  of  Anakim,  came  forth 
On  every  jutting  prominence,  in  mail 
Of  countless  shekels,  and  their  demon  eyes 
Flashed  on  my  shuddering  soul  a  hellish  light, 
Drinking  the  morning  rose-dew  of  my  heart. 

And  thus  I  lay,  it  seemed  unnumbered  years, 
And  not  a  sound  of  earth  broke  forth ;  my  voice 
Sunk  in  my  bosom  like  a  burning  rock 


PHANTASIE.  331 

Thrown  high  o'er  ^Etna,  that  falls  blazing  down 
The  tomb  of  the  wise  Roman;  and  my  breath 
Burst  forth  in  sobs — as  every  throb  were  last — 
While  my  heart  swelled  in  stifled  agonies, 
And  my  brain  wandered — smitten  by  the  fear 
Of  unknown,  boundless,  and  eternal  woe. 
The  spirit's  sunlight  left  my  eyes,  and  deep 
Within  their  sockets  burned  remorseless  fires, 
But  still  I  heard  the  fiends,  in  whispers  low, 
Mutter  some  terrible  event  to  come, 
And  then  a  laugh  smote  on  my  quailing  sense 
Like  the  vast  Kremlin's  knell,  when  Moska  flamed. 
Then  o'er  me  came  a  living  death — a  dream 
Of  life  that  had  been,  but  was  not — a  faint 
And  twilight  glimmering  of  dusky  light 
Amid  the  shapeless  ruins  of  the  soul. 

I  rose  and  I  beheld  !     The  mind  hath  power, 

When  the  sense  slumbers  in  the  deep  of  night, 

Beyond  its  common  majesty  ;  it  dares, 

Endures,  and  acts  with  prouder  strength  than  all 

The  martyrs  and  the  giants  of  old  time. 

Still  frowned  the  black  and  Alpine  battlement, 

That  darkened  o'er  the  heavens — still  the  forms 

Moved  in  their  fiery  darkness  round  and  round, 

Silent  as  dark-robed,  stern  inquisitors. 

The  pale  curl  of  their  livid  lips,  the  throes 

Of  voiceless  pain  that  shook  their  shuddering  limbs, 

The  upturned  eyes  that  prayed  not,  and  the  brows 

Scarr'd  in  a  terrible  strife,  gave  awful  note 

Of  pride  that  triumphed  o'er  unuttered  pain. 


There  was  a  pause ;  and  short  and  thick  my  breath 

Hollowly  quivered,  and  my  heart  stood  still, 

I  lifted  up  my  spirit,  then,  in  prayer 

For  mercy ;  when  a  cloud  of  purple  fire, 

Like  worlds  on  worlds  consuming,  glared  above 

The  prison  battlements,  that  gloomed  on  high, 

And  down  it  sank  and  turned  the  air  to  flame — 


332  PHANTAS1E. 

And  all  the  world  quaked  loud  !  the  azure  skies, 
The  broidered  curtains  of  the  Universe, 
Quivered  as  if  they  trembled  to  reveal 
Mysteries  most  terrible  and  dread,  and  then 
Tornadoes  howled  along  the  burning  Vast — 
And,  at  protracted  intervals,  a  trump 
Sounded  along  immensity  so  loud — 
It  seemed  as  if  all  nations  of  the  dead 
Had  mingled  all  their  voices  in  one  blast! 

My  prayer  was  now  for  death — I  found  it  not ! 

None  meet  the  Spectre  when  their  hearts  desire, 

He  comes  in  silence  when  the  world  looks  fair ! 

Now  came  a  shock  as  though  unnumbered  worlds 

Were  driven  to  a  centre,  and  the  Earth 

Rolled  like  a  shallop  on  the  Deep — the  fiends 

Shrieked,  changed  and  vanished — and  through  bickering  flames 

Wide  as  the  fathomless  Atlantic,  down, 

Down,  amid  clouds  of  awful  gloom  I  fell, 

While  blazing  wings,  outspread,  shot  o'er  the  gulf 

Like  wildest  meteors,  and  ten  thousand  cries 

Went  up  from  depths  no  eye  could  ever  scan. 

Then  through  thick  clouds  of  tempest  glanced  an  arm, 

Mighty  and  dark,  and  in  its  hand  appeared 

A  burning  scroll  of  fearful  characters! 

Then  all  was  hushed ;  worlds  upon  worlds  lay  piled, 

Pillowed  in  darkness !     And  my  dream  was  o'er. 


THE  REIGN  OF  GENIUS. 


THE  spirit  cannot  die ;  it  must  dilate 

Eternally,  and  be  a  vital  part 

Of  everlasting  ages — as  't  was  born 

Amid  unwinged  infinity  and  linked 

With  the  immensity  of  fate  ;  't  is  just 

It  should  be  deathless,  for  its  glorious  powers 

No  limit  know  nor  border,  shining  through 

Creation  like  Hyperion;  but  the  heart 

Will  prey  upon  its  energies  and  hang 

A  mountain  on  its  wings,  for  subtle  thought 

Is  but  the  slave  of  feeling,  and  the  soul 

Will  languish  when  the  bosom  aches,  and  be 

The  vassal  of  men's  usages,  depressed 

By  poor  contingencies  and  habitudes. 

Life's  feeble  purposes  demand  the  use 

Of  powers  almost  angelic,  for  the  soul 

Is  like  the  sun,  though  stationed  in  the  skies, 

It  must  look  down  on  earth,  and  light  alike 

Things  beautiful  and  loathsome.     Be  it  so ! 

Spirits  of  greatness  have  human  form 

And  feature,  like  the  veriest  thing  that  gropes 

And  grovels  in  the  mind's  midnight ;  and  they  pass 

Before  the  world  as  other  mortal  shapes, 

And,  though  the  eye  may  beam  unusually, 

The  brow  wear  deeper  lines  of  thought  intense 

Than  others,  and  the  glow  and  gloom  of  hope, 


I 

334  THE   REIGN  OF  GENIUS. 

The  sunlight  and  the  darkness  of  the  soul, 

Vary  the  changeful  feature,  and  the  tread 

Be  more  unequal  and  the  outward  bearing 

More  plainly  intellectual  than  the  step 

And  look  of  the  great  mass,  yet  deeply  dwells, 

Unseen,  impalpable,  the  living  beam 

Of  glorious  light  that  issued  from  the  sun 

Of  the  Divinity;  and,  unbeheld 

By  creatures  of  most  ordinary  note, 

Beings  pass  by  in  silence  or  they  stand 

Apart,  by  flickering  fashion  unbeheld, 

Or  by  the  world's  worst  slaves,  whose  spirits  are 

More  fitting  glory  and  would  wear  the  robes 

Of  angels  more  to  nature  than  the  shapes 

Mortality  has  burdened  them  withal. 

Such  Spirits  fill  the  universe — they  live 

In  the  blue  ether  and  their  dwelling  place 

Is  the  immensity  above ;  they  sit 

Upon  the  thrones  of  seraphs  in  the  stars 

And  hold  converse  with  them  when  night  with  stars 

Canopies  earth  and  holy  nature  folds 

Her  moonlight  drapery  round  her  and  lies  down 

By  bright  Hyperion's  side  to  bridal  sleep. 

This  world  of  peril  they  in  thought  forget 

And  all  its  crimes  and  woes,  and  they  become 

Associates  with  the  blest  in  pure  desires 

And  feelings  holy;  and  they  love  to  tread 

The  verge  of  paradise,  though  mortal  yet, 

Seeking  to  know  the  loves  that  blossom  there, 

The  joys  that  never  fade  in  those  bright  fields, 

The  thoughts  of  bliss  expanding  ever  through 

The  pauseless  ages  of  undying  love. 

Such  spirits  find  no  thoughts  reciprocal 

In  earthly  beings ;  none  can  estimate 

Their  greatness  rightly ;  none  can  feel  the  same 

Dissolving  and  absorption  of  all  powers 

In  soft  elysian  visionry ;  they  live 

Alone,  starbeams  round  the  sun-throne  of  God  ! 

The  sovereign  eagle  ever  dwells  alone 


THE   REIGN  OF  GENIUS.  335 

In  solitary  majesty,  and  waves 

His  mighty  wings  in  air  unbreathed  by  things 

Of  lowlier  nature;  and  the  lion  walks 

His  monarch  path  untended  and  alone; 

So  the  proud  spirit  lives  in  loneliness 

All  uncommuning,  and  its  solitude 

Becomes  its  empire  where  it  reigns  fore'er 

Itj  might  and  majesty. — But  when  Jt  is  chained 

In  the  bad  world's  cold  prisonhouse,  and  mocked 

By  gazing  folly  and  unholy  guile, 

And  taunted  by  the  reptile  hordes  around, 

Madness  springs  up  within  the  brain  and  glares 

In  deadly  fury  from  the  eye  and  whelms 

The  spirit  prostrate  which  could  be  subdued 

Only  by  its  own  despair!  the  throned  mind 

Is  to  itself  a  god  and  its  high  powers, 

Like  golden  chains,  are  linked  unto  the  skies. 

The  boundless  universe  with  all  its  worlds 

Of  stars  and  suns  is  but  a  narrow  path 

For  the  immortal  spirit;  one  bright  glance 

Of  the  soul's  eye  pervades  all  space  and  flies 

Beyond  the  farthest  reckoning  of  the  sage 

Who  reads  the  heavens;  the  winged  thought  sublime 

Wanders  unresting  through  creation's  worlds 

And  searches  all  their  glorious  beauties,  till, 

Yet  unsatisfied,  it  would  rove  through  realms 

E'en  angels  know  not,  when  some  sudden  pang, 

Dark  passion,  want  or  weakness  crushes  thought, 

And  brings  the  mighty  spirit  down  to  earth, 

And  all  its  chilling  woe  and  bitterness. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  FATHERLESS. 


THOU!  that  in  pangs  didst  give  me  mortal  birth, 
Nourish  my  helplessness  at  thy  life's  spring, 
And  bear  me  gently  o'er  the  desert  earth 
Upon  thy  bosom  till  my  thoughts  took  wing ! 
Thou  !  that  in  days  of  loneliest  grief  didst  fling 
The  mornlight  of  thy  smile,  thy  voice  of  joy 
O'er  my  quick  spirit,  till  each  human  thing 
Glowed  with  the  outbreaking  glory  of  the  sky, 
And  o'er  the  bosom  gushed  of  thy  devoted  boy  ! 

In  pain  and  peril,  when  thy  years  were  few, 
And  Death's  vast  shadow  on  thy  pathway  fell, 
Thou  to  the  greatness  of  thy  trial  grew, 
Bade  fortune,  mirth  and  cherished  hope  farewell, 
Resigned,  for  me,  with  sorrow  long  to  dwell ! 
Thy  sleepless  eye  my  daring  steps  pursued, 
Thy  lone  heart  o'er  my  guarded  couch  did  swell, 
And  o'er  thy  child's  untrodden  solitude 
Thy  thoughts  like  seraphs  flew,  the  messengers  of  Good. 

That  harrowed  brow,  once  smooth  as  Parian  stone, 
That  hollow  eye,  erst  filled  with  Love's  own  light, 
Dimmed  by  the  bloom  through  memory's  temple  thrown- 
That  pale  cheek,  writ  in  characters  of  night, 
That  wasted  form,  which,  ere  the  hour  of  blight, 
Stood  proudly  up  in  worshipped  loveliness — 
All  to  my  soul  reveal  the  charm  and  might 
Of  deathless  Love,  that  dares  unsoothed  distress, 
And  to  the  shrine  of  Truth  can  guide,  and  shield  and  bless. 


THE   LAY   OF  THE   FATHERLESS.  387 

Should  i  forget  the  heart  that  never  quailed, 
Nor  shrunk  from  fast  and  vigil  for  my  sake: 
Could  I  forget  the  faith  that  never  failed, 
The  solitary  star  on  youth's  wild  wake : 
Justly  my  MAKER  from  my  soul  would  take 
The  hope  that  wings  me  to  a  heaven  of  light, 
And  leave  me  in  the  waste  alone  to  slake 
The  deaththirst,  burning  through  the  rnornless  night, 
C/f  the  seared  heart  that  loved  not  Love  in  its  delight. 

Bereaved  of  all  that  gave  thy  being  bliss, 
Save  one  unfortuned  and  unfriended  child, 
Without  thy  crown  of  gladness,  and  the  kiss 
Of  wed  affection  cheering  through  the  wild, 
Thy  spirit  on  my  saddened  seasons  smiled ; 
Thou  in  my  being  didst  condense  thine  own, 
While  poverty  assailed  and  power  beguiled, 
And  sickness  made  in  solitude  its  moan — 
And  can  I  e'er  forget  what  thou  hast  dared  and  done  ? 

Can  matin  orison  and  vesper  hymn, 
Soaring  when  slept  earth's  dagon  soul  of  guile, 
E'er  cease  to  thrill,  while  shades  of  sorrow  swim, 
Memory,  whose  thoughts  with  thine  own  look  now  smile  T 
Can  twilight  meadow  and  hushed  temple  aisle 
Cease  to  enchant  and  hallow  with  their  songs? 
Or  commune  with  wood,  mount,  vale,  stream,  the  while, 
Pass  from  my  spirit  'mid  the  world's  deep  wrongs7 
Thy  wisdom  triumphs  o'er  life's  vain  vindictive  throngs. 

Beauty  in  loneliness  her  image  wrought 
Within  my  wrapt  unsolac'd  bosom — thou  .  , 

Ledst  grandeur  to  the  still  throne  of  my  thought, 
And  badst  me  drink  heaven's  waters  from  the  brow 
Of  the  hoar  giant  precipice  !  and  now, 
Albeit,  men  skill  not  to  scan  me  right, 
Thy  lessons  lead  me,  as  by  palmer  vow, 
Through  trial,  toil,  hate,  grief,  the  watching  night, 
Like  them,  whose  desert  guide  was  Sinai's  holiest  light. 
43 


338  THE  LAY  OF  THE   FATHF.HLJBSS. 

Yet  this  is  but  a  portion  of  my  debt, 
My  Mother!  thou  amidst  my  foes  hast  stood, 
As  in  his  eyrie,  when  the  air  is  jet 
With  wings  of  obscene  birds  and  beaks  of  blood, 
The  eagle  stands — lord  of  the  solitude! 
Their  shafts  have  broken  on  thy  bosom — thou 
Hast  grasped  the  arrows —  struggled  with  the  flood — 
Borne*  more  than  all  my  sufferings,  and  liv'st  now 
To  bear  day's  toil  for  me  and  those  that  round  me  grow. 

And  can  this  be  forgotten?  can  I  shrink 
To  brand  the  mortal  demon  who  shall  dare 
To  doubt  thy  matchless  love?  and  from  the  brink, 
Dragged  from  the  vile  crypt  of  his  serpent  lair, 
Hurl  him  blaspheming  in  his  writh'd  despair? 
No  !  thou  hast  dared  the  torrent — trod  the  waste 
Through  life  for  me — and,  witness  earth  and  air! 
The  heart,  that  but  for  thee  to  dust  had  passed, 
Shall  bleed,  ere  venom  more  upon  thy  truth  is  cast? 

Let  thy  foes  wither  in  the  worthlessness, 
The  scorn  of  coward  vengeance!  that  the  name 
Of  thine  assailer  in  thy  long  distress 
Fitted  the  lips  of  e'en  a  moment's  fame  ! 
Oh,  on  his  brow  the  infamies  of  shame, 
Branded  by  agonies,  should  fall  and  rot 
Into  his  heart  and  brain  till  earth  should  claim 
No  portion  of  his  vileness,  but  his  lot 
Be  with  corruption  which  in  death  decayeth  not! 

Let  the  fiend  hear  !  he  hath  not  checked  my  thought — 
My  heritage  was  sorrow  and  hath  been, 
Yet  poverty  and  grief  not  vain  have  wrought, 
And  I  can  scorn  and  pass  the  base  unseen, 
And  deem  their  malice,  jest,  howe'er  they  ween  ! 
But  there  shall  come  a  time — 't  is  but  delayed — 
When  ye,  forgers  of  falsehood  !  cannot  screen 
Your  bosoms  from  the  lightning !  ye  have  made 
The  storm  your  coach — and  ye  shall  lie  there  mocked  and  flayed. 


SUNSET  AT  SEA. 

For  they,  the  loving  and  beloved,  whom  hate 
Hath  hunted  from  the  birth  of  being,  bear 
My  burthen,  and  the  trials  of  my  fate, 
Because  your  calumnies  defile  the  air  ! 
And  shall  ye  be  forgotten?  when  the  fair 
And  matchless  forms  of  earth,  sea,  heaven  and  mind 
Have  worn  the  wan  looks  of  a  soul's  despair, 
And  I  have  wandered   like  the  homeless  wind, 
Foreboding  doubt  before  and  many  woes  behind  1 

Hope  not  oblivion  !  e'en  your  bread  is  bought 
With  lies;  a  libel  press  pours  out  the  bane 
That  in  your  rank  heart  festers  ;  ye  have  sought 
The  spoils  of  long  revenge,  and  by  the  pain 
Ye  round  my  household  hearth  have  shed,  your  gain 
Shall  be — Derision  ?  and  in  future  time, 
When  earth  casts  up  your  names  and  deeds  profane, 
Rotting  in  curses,  o'er  your  dastard  crime, 
The  shouts  of  hell  shall  roll  and  hail  ve  to  its  clime! 


SUNSET   AT    SEA. 


ARMIES  of  clouds,  that  with  the  dayspring  rose, 
In  sable  masses  float  and  fade  away ; 
The  summer  sun — Jehovah's  shadow — glows 
Along  the  shoreless  verge  of  parting  day  ; 
And  Ocean  lifts  his  king  brow  to  survey 
The  radiance  heaving  like  his  proudest  swell, 
And  gorgeous  companies  in  heaven  delay 
To  drink  new  glory  ere  they  haste  to  tell, 
In  Fancy's  phantom  realms,  how  Ocean's  sunset  fell. 


340  SUNSET  AT  SEA. 

In  storm  and  gloom  morn  came,  and  midday  hung 
Like  a  dark  dream  upon  the  o'erburdened  brain, 
And  the  worn  mind  o'er  its  creations  flung 
The  dreamy  languor  of  the  listless  main : 
But  now  to  landsick  voyagers  again 
Fair  heaven  reveals  the  beauty  of  her  brow, 
And,  where  the  wing'd  clouds  sudden  part  in  twain, 
Like  Antisana's  flame  o'er  mounts  of  snow, 
The  evening  sunbeams  gush,  and  skies  and  waters  glow. 

Lo  !  where  the  rainbow — radiant  light  of  love, 
Arch  of  the  Deluge — Hope's  celestial  bride  ! 
Metes  the  wild  tempest  in  its  wrath  above, 
And  seems  o'er  doubt,  disaster,  death,  to  guide 
The  earthsick  heart  beyond  the  scorn  of  pride  ! 
On  its  fair  height,  methinks,  a  gleaming  throng 
Of  cherubim  repose,  and  seraphs  glide 
Amid  their  choirs,  with  hymn  and  matchless  song, 
To  waft  His  praise  who  sees  and  shelters  human  wrong. 

Far  o'er  the  billowy  deep  the  summer  sun 
Bursts  like  high  heaven  upon  the  spirit's  eye, 
Or  newmade  angel's  gaze,  when  thought  doth  run 
Down  the  bright  lapses  of  Eternity ; 
Remotest  ocean  and  unfathomed  sky, 
Through  all  their  depths  of  voiceless  mysteries, 
Gleam  at  the  glance  of  BEING  thron'd  on  high, 
And  mind  is  lost  in  what  that  will  decrees, 
Which  holds  its  power  alone  in  two  eternities. 

Bosomed  on  grandeur  'mid  the  purple  host, 
Soft,  blue,  and  beautiful,  the  crystal  heaven 
Looks  down  like  Pity  on  the  fierce  Self  Lost, 
And  hushes  hearts  that  long  have  bled  and  striven ; 
And,  with  a  smile  like  that  of  sin  forgiven,  > 

Seems  to  allure  the  unhappy  to  its  breast, 
Where  GOD'S  high  messengers,  at  morn  and  even, 
Come  from  the  diamond  mansions  of  the  blest     * 
To  whisper  oracles  and  soothe  the  soul  to  rest 


SUNSET    AT  SEA.  341 

So  through  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  earth, 
The  vain  habiliments  we  weave  in  woe, 
The  gentle  hours,  that  blessed  our  gladsome  birth, 
Come  o'er  us  with  a  bland  and  budding  glow. 
In  youth  we  feel,  in  manhood  search  and  know; 
One  for  enjoyment,  and  the  other,  Fame ! 
Oh,  happier  far  to  treasure  and  bestow 
The  diamonds  of  the  heart,  than  crown  a  name, 
And  shrine  a  memory  here,  where  first  oblivion  came. 

Before  the  faint  breeze,  o'er  the  slumbering  Deep, 
The  clouded  ship  without  a  sound  moves  on : 
And  now  the  clear  horizon  seems  to  sleep 
In  that  soft  sea  of  light,  as  on  a  throne, 
Where  all  the  clouds  adore  the  triumph  won, 
Arid  throng  around  the  sun's  immortal  shrine: 
They  rise,  sink,  burn — and  ere  the  crimson's  gone, 
The  purple  robes  them  in  a  garb  divine, 
Till  dusky  death  hastes  on,  and  utters  "  All  are  mine !" 

Where  sea  and  sky,  like  love  and  beauty  meet, 
The  illumined  vapour  revels  in  the  breeze; 
So  deep  its  brilliance,  and  its  smile  so  sweet, 
So  awful  in  their  silence,  trackless  seas, 
With  all  their  wild  and  maddening  mysteries, 
Methinks,  I  sail  on  that  charm'd  visioned  wave, 
The  saint  in  Patmos  saw — where  deathless  trees 
By  mirror'd  waters   bloom,  and  princedoms  lave 
Their  wings  of  thousand   eyes — beyond  earth's  dungeon  grave. 

And  yon  the  shore  of  Paradise,  the  home 
Of  wrecked  affections  and  unblest  desires, 
And  hopes  that  fed  on  poison  !  thither  come 
The  forms  that  shadowed  sorrow's  wasting  fires, 
The  hearts  that  glowed  along  the  thrilling  wires; 
And  voices,  wafted  on  the  holy  air, 
Echo  the  music  of  archangel  lyres, 
And  many  a  child  of  sin,  in  Love's  high  prayer, 
Adores  the  Power  benign  that  rescued  from  despair. 


342  SUNSET  AT  SKA. 

Wedded  to  images  of  lonely  thought, 
Linked  to  the  dim  world  of  past  revelries, 
The  mind,  that  long  unto  itself  hath  wrought 
Fairy  enchantment    from  whate'er  it  sees, 
Creates  a  shrine  in  every  cloud  that  flees; 
Temples  and  chateaux,  groves  and  meadows  bright 
With  violet  smiles,  that  perfume  every  breeze, 
And  towers  and  palaces,  in  that  deep  light, 
With  the  old  look  of  pride  salute  the  radiant  sight. 

And  in  those  wing'd  and  wandering  mansions  dwell 
Affections,  thoughts,  hopes,  fears,  and  transports  past, 
The  blighted  love,  that  like  Phaeton  fell, 
The  great  ambition,  like  a  shadow  cast 
O'er  the  dead  solitude  of  Barca's  waste! 
And  through  the  blue  and  glorious  boundlessness, 
To  each    sweet  star  that  visited  our  last 
And  wild  farewell,  our  visions  haste  to  bless 
Hours  happier  for  their  doubt,  and  victors  of  distress. 

Thou  sacred  Tempo  of  the  wearied  mind  ! 
Hope  in  stern  trial — home  in  wildest  storm! 
Imagination! — wing'd  upon  the  wind, 
Child  of  the  rainbow,  gifted  with  a  charm, 
That  sanctifies  the  heart,  and  keeps  it  warm 
With  beautiful  humanities — delay, 
While  years  depart,  and,  in  all  trouble,  form 
Thine  airy  armies  round  me,  though  my  way 
Should  lead  o'er  Hecla's  fires,  or  orient  Himmaleh ! 

Thou  to  our  mood  dost  fashion  outward  things, 
And  all  the  chainless  elements  combine 
To  shed  the  bloom  without  the  bitter  stings, 
That  panoply,  O  Earth  !  each  flower  of  thine  ! 
Thus  in  blest  solitude  we  grow  divine 
With  a  far  higher  nature  than  our  own, 
And  follow  Hope  along  her  golden  line, 
While  mingle  smile  and  sigh  and  rnirth  and  moan, 
To  that  bright  realm  of  dreams  where  Mercy  holds  her  throne 


THE  LAST  SONG.  343 

Thus  in  the  solitude  of  Ocean,  come 
Thrilling  revealments  of  a  holier  state, 
Great  thoughts  that  struggle  for  their  native  home, 
Deep  feelings  tortured  in  the  cell  of  fate, 
Fame  crushed  by  falsehood,  love  by  causeless  hate; 
And,  floating  on  the  wave  that  cannot  rest, 
E'en  Death  becomes  companion,  courteous  mate, 
And  friend  and  counsellor — and  he  is  blest 
Who  o'er  Life's  tempest  flings  the  rainbow  of  the  breast. 


THE   LAST   SONG. 

T  is  the  last  song — the  last  song  of  a  wronged  and  injured  spirit, 
That,  through  woe  and  misery,  only  death  can  inherit ; 
The  last  song  of  a  northern  bard  beneath  a  southern  clime, 
The  last  heart-breathing,  burning  words  in  all  the  lapse  of  time. 

If  to  the  spirit  God  has  given  we  ever  would  be  true, 

If  the  evil  world  would  render  e'er  the  tribute  that  is  due, 

We  never,  while  the  earth  abides,  might  lose  the  heart  of  hearts, 

That  thrills  the  soul  with  many  a  dream,  whose  magic  ne'er  departs. 

Woe  to  the  proud  and  daring  soul  that  spurns  the  chains  of  earth  ! 
Woe  to  the  child  of  genius  from  his  fatal  hour  of  birth  ! 
His  struggles  are  with  the  low — his  triumphs  are  his  doom, 
And  the  only  fires  that  light  him  on  are  the  vvatchlights  of  the  tomb  ! 

Farewell  to  all  that  ever  gave  my  earlier  being  bliss! 

Let  me  pass  away  to  other  worlds  who  am  so  sad  in  this ! 

If  the  soul  that  is  my  torture  now,  in  the  far,  far  heaven  can  live, 

Then  adieu  fore'er  to  all  below,  for  I  would  not  here  survive ! 

We  breathe  in  bondage  but  to  bear  the  ills  we  never  wrought, 
And  to  cast  among  a  mocking  world  the  holiest  gems  of  thought: 
The  madness  and  the  misery,  that  await  us  from  our  birth, 
Are  but  heralds  sent  from  GOD  to  wing  us  from  the  earth  ! 


THE  IDEALIST. 


WHEN  the  last  hues  of  sunset  fade  away, 
And  blend  in  magic  wreaths  of  light  and  shade, 
And  stillness  sleeps  beside  the  closing  day, 
Drinking  the  music  of  the  breezy  glade, 

'T  is  joy  to  wander  forth  alone 

Through  shadowy  groves  and  solemn  woods, 

And  muse  of  pleasures  past  and  gone, 

'Mid  nature's  holy  solitudes: 
For  then  my  spirit  to  its  God  aspires, 
And  worships  in  the  light  of  Love's  ascending  fires. 

Where  rocks  hang  tottering  from  the  mountain's  side, 
And  ancient  trees  in  hoary  grandeur  wave, 
I  love  to  sit,  forgetting  pomp  and  pride, 
And  all  the  passions  that  the  soul  enslave, 

And  yield  my  heart  to  the  sweet  charm 

Of  nature  in  her  loneliness, 

While  soft  voiced  zephyrs,  breathing  balm, 

The  perfumed  flowers  and  shrubs  caress, 
And  the  last  songbird  pours  her  parting  lay 
Of  love  and  praise  to  bless  the  brightly  closing  day. 

There  is  a  loveliness  in  nature's  smile, 
Which  fills  the  heart  with  heaven's  own  holy  gladness, 
Though  he,  whose  heaven  is  in  her  charms,  the  while, 
Feels  thoughts  steal  o'er  him  of  surpassing  sadness. 

When  'mid  the  perfect  works  of  God, 

He  muses  on  the  sin  and  folly 

That  make  man's  heart  their  dark  abode, 

Oh,  who  would  not  be  melancholy? 
How  sad  the  thought  that  this  fair  world  should  be 
The  dwellingplace  of  guilt  and  helpless  misery! 


THE  IDEALIST.  345 

Yet  if  his  woe  be  unallied  to  crime, 
And  suffering  not  from  evil  conscience  spring, 
To  nature's  bosom  let  him  come,  what  time 
Flowers  ope  the  bud  and  birds  are  on  the  wing, 

And  there  the  fretful  world  forget 

And  search  the  world  of  his  own  breast, 

Where  thoughts,  like  suns,  arise  and  set, 

And  whirlwind  passions  rage  unblest; 
There  let  the  son  of  song  and  sorrow  lie 
And  inspiration  catch  from  nature's  speaking  eye ! 

From  earliest  youth  I  loved  alone  to  climb 

The  moss-wreath'd  rock,  and  from  the  mountain's  brow 

O'er  sea  and  land,  an  amplitude  sublime,    • 

To  gaze  when  sunk  the  sun  in  radiant  glow, 

And  poured  o'er  quiet  vales  and  hills, 

And  groves  and  meads  arid  gushing  streams, 

Such  glory  as  creation  fills, 

His  last  full  swell  of  golden  beams. 

0  ye,  who  would  adore  the  Eternal  Power, 

Go  forth  alone  and  pray  at  twilight's  hallowed  hour ! 

The  spirit  then  throws  off  the  garb  of  clay, 
Which  in  the  \farring  world  't  is  doomed  to  wear, 
And  robes  itself  in  beautiful  array, 
And  soars  and  sings  amid  the  blooming  air, 

Where  in  aerial  halls  of  light 

Meet  kindred  spirits  pure  and  good, 

And  parted  souls  again  unite 

Where  grief  and  pain  cannot  intrude, 
And  in  the  radiance  of  soul-mingling  eyes, 
Reveal  the  mystic  power  of  heaven's  high  harmonies. 

1  ever  was  a  melancholy  child, 
Unmirthful  and  unmingling  with  the  crowd ; 
The  loneliest  solitude  on  me  hath  smiled 
When  lightning  darted  from  the  rifted  cloud  ; 

And  I  have  felt  a  strange  delight 
'Mid  forests  and  the  cavern's  gloom. 
44 


346  THE  IDEALIST. 

And  wandered  forth  at  dead  midnight 

To  muse  beside  the  lonely  tomb. 
I  always  loved  the  light  of  that  dread  Eye, 
Which  flashed  upon  rne  from  eternity ! 

I  knew  not  whence  such  unshared  feelings  came — - 
I  only  knew  my  heart  was  full  of  deep 
Emotions  vivid — but  without  a  name  ; 
Within  my  breast  they  would  not — could  not  sleep, 

But  swayed  me  in  their  giant  power 

To  passion's  uncommuning  mood, 

And  drave  me  from  the  festive  bower 

To  ruined  tower  and  lonely  wood, 
Where  on  my  soul  ideal  glories  came, 
Fairies  and  oreads  bright,  and  coursers  wrapt  in  flame. 

Oh,  how  I  loved  that  solitary  trance, 
That  deep  upheaving  of  the  bosom's  sea, 
O'erstrewn  with  gems  that  dazzled  on  my  glance, 
Like  eyes  that  gleam  from  out  eternity  ! 

Creatures  of  every  form  and  hue, 

Lords  of  the  earth  and  angels  past 

In  garbs  of  gold  before  my  view, 

Like  lightnings  on  the  hurrying  blast, 
And  voices  on  my  inward  spirit  broke, 
And  mysteries  breathed,  and  words  prophetic  spoke. 

The  child  of  reverie  and  the  son  of  song, 
A  word  could  wound  me  or  a  look  depress ; 
I  saw  the  world  was  full  of  ill  and  wrong 
And  sin  and  treachery  and  sad  distress; 

And  so,  e'en  in  my  boyhood's  morn, 

I  fled  the  haunts  that  others  love, 

That  I  might  think  why  I  was  born, 

And  what  below  and  what  above 
Was  due  from  one  thus  sent  upon  the  earth 
To  sow  and  reap  in  tears  and  mourn  his  mortal  birth. 

My  birthplace  was  the  airy  mountain  height, 
And  childhood  passed  'mid  nature's  grandeur  wild, 


THE   IDEALIST.  347 


And  still  I  see  by  memory's  magic  light, 


How  on  my  soul  each  Alpine  mountain  smiled  ! 
Though  years  have  passed  since  I  was  there, 
And  many  a  change  hath  o'er  me  come, 
There  's  not  a  scene,  or  wild  or  fair, 
Around  my  long  forsaken  home, 
But  1  could  point  in  darkness  out,  and  tell 
The  shape  and  form  of  things  I  loved  so  well. 

Trees,  birds  and  flowers  were  my  familiar  friends 
In  boyhood's  days — and  every  leaf  that  grew 
Whispered  soft  oracles  of  love; — there  blends 
With  budding  thought  a  spirit  from  the  dew, 
That  gems  each  quivering  leaf  and  flower ; 
And  precious  to  the  mind  mature 
Are  memories  of  that  guiltless  hour, 
When  with  a  worship  fond  and  pure 
The  soul  beheld  in  every  thing  below 
A  God  sublime,  whom  we  in  works  alone  can  know. 

Deep  in  the  soul  rest  early  thoughts,  and  now 
My  spirit  roams  'mid  lonely  hills,  when  night 
Her  starry  veil  throws  o'er  her  spotless  brow, 
And  wraps  her  elfin  form  in  fair  moonlight; 
Then  o'er  me  come  those  thoughts  again, 
Which  were  my  heaven  in  other  years, 
And  I  forget  my  bosom's  pain, 
And  cease  to  feel  my  trickling  tears. 
Wierd  sybils  !  cease  of  destiny  to  prate  ! 
The  boy  creates  for  life  and  ratifies  his  fate. 

Here  let  me  rest — a  wanderer  tired  and  faint, 
Dear  Nature !  on  thy  soft  maternal  breast, 
And  learn  for  others  those  fair  scenes  to  paint, 
Which  taught  me  wisdom  and  which  made  me  blest! 

O 

Fashion  and  folly  still  may  rove 
And  seek  for  pleasure  in  the  throng, 
But  I  will  live  in  thy  sweet  love, 
And  blend  thy  praises  with  my  song, 

O  holiest  daughter  of  the  Holy  One, 

Whose  smile  wafts  spirits  to  the  heavenly  throne ! 


THE    DREAM    OF    THE    SEPULCHRE.* 


Ix  solemn  commune  of  the  lone  still  night, 
When,  throned  in  heaven,  the  stars  beam  brightly  clear, 
Shedding  on  earth  dim  shadowings  of  that  light, 
Whose  radiance  gleams  o'er  glory's  brightest  sphere, 
I  oft  have  dwelt  on  that  recoiling  fear, 
That  shuddering  awe  which  bows  the  human  mind, 
When  beckoning  shadows  in  the  gloom  appear, 
Or  sheeted  phantoms  wail  in  midnight  wind, 
Dread  visitants,  uncalled,  unto  their  shuddering  kind. 

And  it  hath  seemed  an  awful  thing  and  strange 
That  unblest  spirits  o'er  the  earth  should  roam, 
Unbanned,  tho'  feared — for  ever  bringing  change, 
Sorrow  and  death — prophetic  shades  of  doom  ! 
Mystery  of  mysteries  !  not  e'en  the  tomb 
Vouchsafeth  slumber  unto  souls  unblest, 
But  from  sepulchral  darkness  they  will  come, 
From  their  dark  prison  and  their  chill  unrest, 
And  with  mute  horror  freeze  the  fountains  of  the  breast. 

In  every  age,  in  every  clime,  vain  man 

Hath  sought  what,  found,  could  give  him  only  woe ; 

Since  the  long  eras  of  despair  began 

He  hath  desired  that  knowledge  which  doth  grow 

*  In  this  Poem  it  is  the  purpose  of  the  author  to  suggest  and  illustrate  those  un 
ceasing  though  unprofitable  wanderings  of  the  mind,  which,  discontented  with  the 
common  allotment,  searches  after  an  Arcadian  Utopia  among  the  shadows  of  futu 
rity.  The  subject  has  been  deemed  one  of  high  poetical  capability ;  how  far  the 
writer  has  done  justice  to  his  theme  is  a  question  that  awaits  the  reply  of  the  cour- 
.teous  reader. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE.  349 

In  the  dark  vale  of  death  alone — and  so 
His  spirit  hath  no  rest — he  pants  to  drink 
The  waters  that  will  poison  ages  ! — Go  ! 
Turn  not !  away  from  horror's  dizzy  brink, 
For  vain  are  all  the  thoughts  thy  burning  brain  can  think  ! 

Dreams,  omens,  apparitions — tales  of  eld — 
Vague  oracles  and  auspices  and  charms, 
And  spells  of  hoary  magi — holy  held — 
All  that  electrifies,  enchants,  alarms, 
And  lays,  as  ?t  were,  within  our  living  arms 
The  secrets  of  Eternity  ;  all  these, 

While  life's  quick  spirit  every  bosom  warms,  • 

Will  be,  as  they  have  been,  the  sounding  seas, 
O'er  which  man's  soul  goes  forth,  a  barque  before  the  breeze. 

And  these  will  warp  the  spirit  in  their  power, 
And  crush  the  green  buds  of  the  heart,  and  throw 
The  gloom  of  destined  grief  o'er  every  hour; 
Thus  tribulations  and  hard  trials  grow 
To  utter  agony — despairing  woe — 
Low  wailing  discontent  and  blasphemy  ; 
Thus  hope  forsakes  us  in  the  rosy  glow 
Of  young  desire — and  o'er  our  morning  sky 

The  tempest  gathers  dark  on  youth's  rejoicing  eye. 

•'  »    *'       - 

Yet  gray-hair'd  sages,  skilled  in  secret  lore, 
Against  the  fearful  creed  have  vainly  striven  ; 
Shadows  uncouth  have  gloomed  on  dusky  shore 
And  dark  bleak  heath  amid  the  gathering  even; 
Strange  forms  have  glimmered  o'er  the  twilight  heaven, 
E'en  to  the  eyes  of  wisdom,  unlike  earth's, 
And  howling  shrieks,  upon  the  tempest  driven, 
Blanched  rosy  cheeks  round  merry  crackling  hearths, 
And  frantic  mothers  mourned  o'er  diabolic  births. 

The  lamp's  red  light  hath  suddenly  turned  dim  ; 
Wild  hollow  gusts  moaned  o'er  the  midnight  sky ; 
From  halls  of  banquet  wailed  the  funeral  hymn, 
While  terror  clouded  the  inquiring  eye, 


350  THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

And  shook  the  shuddering  heart  in  mastery, 
When  faltering  voices  awful  knowledge  sought, 
And  pale  lips  quivered,  breathless  for  reply 
To  daring  question  of  mysterious  Nought, 
Whose  gibbering  accents  fell — annihilating  thought. 

Mail'd  knights,  their  helms  and  gorgets  streaming  blood, 
And  their  torn  banners  spotted  with  dark  gore, 
Have  blown  their  warhorns  in  the  mountain  wood 
Till  every  cavern  echoed  to  the  roar ; 
And  coal-black  steeds,  mid  arrowy  lightnings,  o'er 
The  precipice  have  leapt  and  clattered  on 
Through  rock-barr'd  glens,  by  ocean's  sounding  shore, 
While  their  dead  riders,  from  their  eyes  of  stone, 
Flashed  forth  a  demon  light  and  raised  an  awful  moan. 

Mid  the  deep  passes  of  the  Odenwold 
Or  Hartz — meet  haunt  for  fiends  that  tempt  and  kill, 
The  traveller's  heart  in  terror  hath  grown  cold, 
As,  like  a  whirlwind,  up  the  haunted  hill, 
Where  all  was  vast  and  dark  and  ghostly  still, 
He  hurried  on — nor  dared  to  turn  his  head — 
While  yet  the  night  obeyed  the  demon's  will, 
And  round  him  nocked  an  army  of  the  dead, 
With  juggling  giant  fiends,  who  mocked  him  as  he  fled. 

Where  old  St  Gothard,  from  his  alpine  height, 
O'erlooks  the  avalanche  and  glacier  steep, 
The  monk  hath  wakened,  in  a  wild  affright, 
From  troubled  trances  that  do  murder  sleep, 
And  leave  the  wearied  eye  in  vain  to  weep, 
While  the  Wild  Huntsman  and  his  train  went  by, — 
Hounds  baying,  bugles  wailing — one  wide  sweep 
Of  woodland  warfare,  that  portended  nigh 
The  viewless  woes  of  all  called  forth  to  do  or  die. 

The  assassin  host  hath  started  from  his  feast, 
When  the  loud  summons  shook  his  castle-gate, 
And  on  his  tongue  died  merry  tale  and  jest 
At  the  dread  warning  of  triumphant  Fate  ! 


THE   DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE.  351 

Through  mossgrown  towers  and  vast  halls  desolate 
Till  morn  reechoes  the  slow  armed  tread, 
And,  where  the  ancient  chieftain  whilome  sate, 
Fixed  eyes  unearthly  gleam,  as  if  the  dead 
Were  throned  in  judgment  o'er  dark  deeds  of  years  long  fled. 


Barons  have  trembled  like  their  vassals  when 
Death  shook  his  cerements  off*,  and  came  among 
The  living,  like  a  victor ; — priests  have  then 
Clung  to  their  shrines  e'en  as  the  voiceless  tongue 
Grew  to  the  quivering  palate ; — vaults  have  rung 
With  vigil  prayers  and  groans  of  agony, 
And  moans  of  penance  and  low  dirges  sung, 
Till  the  scared  worshippers  made  haste  to  flee, 
And  hurried,  baffled  in  their  power,  in  dark  crowds  franticly. 

Mid  the  deep  silence  of  her  sacred  cell, 
The  vestal  hath  forgot  to  tell  her  beads, 
And  listened  to  the  agonizing  yell, 
That  fearfully  revealed  most  fearful  deeds! 
Vain,  then,  were  crucifix  and  prayers  and  creeds, 
Vain  the  dim  vigil  and  the  patient  fast — 
Still,  like  the  moaning  of  sepulchral  weeds, 
Sighs,  as  of  suffering  spirits,  by  her  passed, 
And  shrieks  thro'  cloisters  rung — the  wildest  and  the  last. 


Why  come  these  bodements  of  approaching  ill 
O'er  Thought,  the  silent  language  heaven  doth  hear  ? 
Why  quails  the  heart,  with  a  pervading  thrill, 
At  the  dim  shades  of  what  it  should  not  fear? 
— All  we  should  know  is  known  and  felt; — draw  near! 
Read  the  fair  volume  of  the  earth  and  skies ! 
Rest  thou  on  Hope,  without  a  sigh  or  tear ! 
And  joy  on  earth  shall  be  thy  glorious  prize, 
While  He,  thy  Helper,  reads  the  fearful  mysteries. 

And  when  thy  pathway  is  beset,  and  grief 
Waits  on  thee  like  a  shadow,  and  thou  art 
An  alien  from  thy  kind — a  pilgrim-chief 
On  life's  wild  desert,  yet  thy  yearning  heart 


352  THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

Will  cling  to  its  youth's  heaven  and  impart 
The  tender  beauty  of  its  blest  repose 
To  all  that  lives;   so  thou  dost  ne'er  depart 
From  truth  revealed,  nor  crown  thy  many  woes 
By  dark  distrust  and  doubt  that  round  thy  spirit  close. 

Strange  things  have  been,  if  there  be  truth  in  oath, 
And  mighty  men  have  been  o'ercome  with  dread, 
And  holy  priests  of  bell  and  book — though  loth 
To  quail  before  the  inessential  dead  ; 
The  wisest,  purest,  bravest,  best  have  fled 
From  midnight  wailings  and  mysterious  forms, 
Nor  dared  to  watch  the  slow  unsounding  tread, 
Nor  hear  the  shrieks,  mid  wildly  bickering  storms, 
Of  souls  unblest  that  howled  o'er  their  cold  bed  of  worms. 

And  mind  hath  quailed  to  phantasies,  and  signs 
Upon  the  heart  have  fallen  like  a  hell ; 
Life  hath  been  measured  by  the  palmer's  lines, 
Whose  hours  allotted  God  alone  can  tell ; 
And  seasons  have  been  sanctities,  whose  spell 
Was  bane  to  beauty  and  a  blight  to  love ; 
And  men  have  drunken  at  the  merlin's  well 
Till  demons  peopled  every  idol  grove, 
And  shut  from  human  eyes  the  glory  from  above. 

"We  meet  at  Philippi!"  the  Phantom  said, 
And  Rome  was  lost  when  her  last  hero  fell — 
Fell  where  the  ghost  of  vanquished  Caesar  led, 
While  Freedom  vanished  and  the  funeral  knell 
Toll'd  for  her  country  ! — To  the  wizzard's  cell 
Crowds  throng  to  perish  'neath  inflicted  fears 
Deeper  and  deadlier  than  their  dreaded  hell, 
While  ghastly  spectres  of  predestined  years 
Gasp  hideous  smiles  and  mock  at  unavailing  tears. 

There  is  a  voice  in  every  leaf  that  stirs 
Amid  the  greenwood,  when  the  twilight  air 
Sighs  through  the  oaken  boughs  or  close  thick  firs, 
Revealing  future  glory  or  despair ; 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE.  353 

And  melancholy  Thought  from  things  that  are 
Catches  dim  glimpses  of  the  days  to  come, 
And  thus  sky,  earth  and  sounding  ocean  wear 
The  ghastly  glimmer  of  a  quivering  gloom, 
The  hue  of  voiceless  Fear — the  terror  of  the  Tornb. 

The  mind  of  Man  !  a  strange  and  awful  Power! 
Seraphic  brightness  shadowed  o'er  by  dust ! 
A  god  that  left  its  paradise  an  hour, 
And  clothed  itself  in  clay — its  hope  and  trust 
Still  yearning  for  the  mansions  of  the  just. 
Dimmed,  not  polluted,  by  the  body's  ills, 
(Like  virgin  gold  most  precious  'neath  its  rust) 
The  spirit  here  its  pilgrimage  fulfils, 
And  heaven  receives  its  thoughts,  as  ocean,  countless  rills. 

To  die  is  doom  and  Life  enacts  our  Death — 
That  should  not  daunt  us  nor  the  manner  how; 
So  we  escape  the  villenage  of  breath, 
And  all  the  sorrows  that  beset  us  now  ; 
But  in  the  deep  guilt  of  a  broken  vow, 
And  sin  unpardoned,  to  behold  the  ban 
And  fear  yet  shun  it  not — oh !  this  is  woe 
Which  quenches  mind,  that  cannot  choose  but  scan 
The  endless  errors  and  the  destiny  of  man. 

Mid  the  vast  pomp  of  Judah's  sacred  fane 
The  holy  man  in  glistening  ephod  passed, 
And  marked  the  Chosen ;  while,  like  April  rain, 
Guilt's  blood  poured  forth;  and  thus,  until  the  last, 
Crime  unredeemed  will  stain  the  boundless  waste 
Of  life, — and  he  that  sinneth  can  but  die; 
Yet  for  the  few  who  shun  the  desert  blast 
Of  Evil,  joy  still  dwells  beneath  the  sky, 
And  Hope  that  mounteth  up — whose  Eden  is  on  high. 

To  thoughtful  wisdom  every  spot  of  earth 
Is  full  of  beauty,  every  sound,  of  joy, 
And  the  soul  revels  in  its  deathless  birth, 
And  feels  in  age  the  genius  of  the  boy. 
45 


354  THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

So  He  ordains  who  dwelleth  in  the  sky, 
Though  billowy  clouds  float  round  about  His  throne, 
And  darkness  His  pavilion  is  on  high, 
For  justly  He  beholdeth  all  that  's  done, 
And  chooseth  from  the  earth  the  souls  that  are  His  own. 

The  world  is  full  of  terror — terror  born 
Of  what  we  know  not ;  like  the  sacred  gold 
That  Brennus  stole  from  Delphi,  left  forlorn, 
Life  is  a  fatal  treasure !  we  grow  old 
In  early  youth  and  human  joy  is  sold 
For  fear  that  bringeth  woe ;  bound  down,  girt  round 
With  woes  we  never  can  on  earth  unfold, 
We  still  must  bear,  while  every  sight  and  sound 
Chills  the  wild  breaking  heart  in  sorcery's  fetters  bound. 

We  are  not  of  the  things  we  seem ;  there  lies 
A  boundlessness  we  search  not— cannot  know — 
Around,  and,  like  the  starry  fields  and  skies, 
Thoughts  distant  mingle  in  a  maze  of  woe 
And  break  the  spirit  down  and  o'er  us  throw 
The  robe  of  Nessus ;  knowledge  skills  not  here ; 
In  the  dark  commune  of  a  dream,  we  grow 
Unto  the  things  we  fashion  and  the  tear, 
•Unshed,  doth  turn  to  ice  and  this  the  heart  must  bear. 

The  spirit  cannot  grasp  what  it  defines; 
All  must  believe  what  none  can  comprehend; 
Our  Fate  must  trace  the  long,  the  fatal  lines 
That  bind  our  hearts  and  with  their  being  end! 
We  are  but  shadows  here ;  strange  things  that  blend 
Oft  with  the  earth — sometimes,  with  heaven;  like  snow, 
Pure  in  the  dayspring  of  our  birth,  we  wend 
After  in  the  world's  wide  pathway  and  soon  grow 
Familiar  with  Earth's  guilt  and  all  the  sinner's  woe. 

Dark  visions  of  the  Sceptic !  where  ye  lead 
Thousands  will  follow;  what  ye  teach,  believe! 
Tremble!   dim  reason  is  the  failing  reed 
Ye  lean  upon  in  mystery !     Qh,  deceive 


THE  DREAM  OF    THE    SEPULCHRE.  355 

The  widowed  heart  no  more,  or  it  must  grieve 
O'er  the  cold  ruin  of  its  darkened  shrine, 
And,  as  it  wanders,  still  behind  it  leave 
Its  godlike  powers,  high  thoughts  and  hopes  benign — 
And  the  immortal  Light  that  proved  its  birth  divine! 

False  as  responses  from  Dodona's  cave, 
Or  rude  Telmessus,  are  the  unearthly  fears 
That  haunt  the  heart  thro'  being  to  the  grave, 
And  change  to  agony  outgushing  tears; 
Yet  every  changeful  leaf  and  shadow  bears 
Some  dim  similitude  of  woes  to  come, 
And  lone  reflection,  like  dark  waters,  wears          :v>  •>•• 
Life's  life  away — in  peril  of  its  doom — 
Till  the  grieved  spirit  parts  and  wanders  to  its  home. 

The  midnight  churchyard  and  the  lonely  heath, 
The  o'erarched  forest  and  the  ruined  tower, 
Where  stilly  roam  the  images  of  death, 
Where  goblins  gibber  at  the  voiceless  hour, 
And  strange  appearances,  like  giants,  lour 
Thro'  the  dead  darkness  of  the  creaking  wood — 
Oh!  these  are  seasons  when  the  fiend  hath  power, 
And  places  where  he  tempteth  men  to  blood, 
While  madness  springs  from  fear  and  stunning  solitude. 

And  these  things,  awful  in  their  mystery,  fill 
The  o'ercharged  heart  with  horror  past  all  speech, 
And  shoot  thro'  every  vein  a  quivering  thrill, 
An  awe  that  petrifies,  beyond  the  reach 
Of  human  healing;  wisdom  cannot  teach 
Knowledge,  nor  tame  the  terrors  that  will  bear 
The  spirit  into  frenzy !     Preach,  oh,  preach, 
In  zealot  dooming  to  the  empty  air, 
Ye  ministers  of  men!  then  tremble  in  despair! 

Reveal  your  mission  !  rend  away  the  veil! 
Tell  us  what  't  is  we  dread  and  what  we  are ! 
Cloud  not  the  heart  whose  thickening  pulses  fail! 
Doubt  o'er  us  hangs,  like  a  cold  distant  star, 


356  THE  DREAM  OF    THE    SEPULCHRE. 

That  shows  but  darkness — truth  abides  afar, 
None  knoweth  where ;  but  are  ye  of  the  skies, 
Yet  cannot  tear  away  the  obstructing  bar, 
That  shuts  out  knowledge?     Light  our  groping  eyes, 
Or  never  more  o'ercloud  the  eternal  mysteries? 

Where  are  we?     Earth  doth  seem  a  hell  afar 
From  the  bright  dwellings  of  the  pure  and  high ; 
The  darkened  mockery  of  a  cold  dim  star, 
That,  ages  since,  dropped  from  the  glorious  sky! 
— What  are  we  ?     Angels  vouchsafe  no  reply, 
And  our  own  thoughts  are  but  a  maze  of  dreams, 
That  wrap  us  in  delusion  ;  the  soul's  eye 
Is  dimmed  by  doubt  and  dazzled  by  the  gleams, 
That  flash  from  heaven  o'er  earth,  like  lightning  o'er  dark  streams 

Why  should  we  live  to  be  the  thrall  of  fears, 
That  sear  the  bleeding  bosom  ?     Why  abide 
Where  Hope's  frail  flowers  are  watered  by  our  tears, 
Where  passion  riots  on  the  wreck  of  pride, 
And  every  joy  is  hurried  down  the  tide 
Of  Time  to  dim  oblivion  ? — All  is  pain, 
Our  birth,  life,  death — and,  onward  as  we  glide, 
We  leave  behind  the  things  we  love,  full  fain 
To  linger  near  past  joys  we  shall  not  see  again. 

Why  such  things  are,  earth  never  can  reveal ! 
The  canon  of  our  doom  hath  found  its  close! 
The  dread  Dispensers  of  our  woe  or  weal 
O'er  earth  and  heaven — its  angels  or  its  foes — 
Wander  where'er  the  tide  of  being  flows; 
We  know  not,  none  know,  where  our  path  began 
Nor  where  ?t  will  end!  but  while  the  blue  sky  glows, 
And  seasons  bless  our  bosoms,  still  the  ban 
Of  Evil  doth  not  blight  the  moral  heart  of  man. 

Though  branded  by  the  taint  of  sin,  and  blurr'd 
By  the  dire  passions  of  our  earthly  lot; 
Though  upas  envy  in  the  soul  hath  stirr'd, 
And  dark  revenge  that  cannot  be  forgot; 


THE  DHEAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE.  357 

Though  murder  leaves  its  hecatombs  to  rot, 
And  bandit  kings   are  Earth's  Liege  Lords  of  woe  ; 
Yet  there  's  redeeming  beauty  for  the  blot, 
And  blessedness,  that,  with  a  mellow  glow, 
Lights  up  the  deepest  stains  that  steep  our  hearts  below. 

E'en  as  I  write,  old  ocean's  billows  swell 
And  rush  and  roar  around  me,  and  the  sun 
Gleams  o'er  the  Atlantic  waters  as  they  well 
From  the  deep  fountains  of  the  depths;  near  done, 
The  summer  eve  sinks  on  the  sea,  and  on  . 
The  gallant  ship  careers  like  hope  to  Heaven ! 
But  all  is  mystery  around ;  we  run 
A  race  with  fate  in  darkness,  and  't  is  given 
Our  weary,  fainting  hearts  to  be  asunder  riven  ; 

Or  worn,  like  rocky  channels,  till  our  life 
Becomes  an  agony — a  burning  thirst, 
A  gasping  fever — a  Prometheus  strife 
With  Destiny  almighty  from  the  first! 
Vain  is  the  song  that  from  the  heart  hath  burst, 
Vain  is  the  incense  of  the  poet's  soul, 
Vain,  deeds  of  glory  blessed  or  accursed, 
And  vain  the  fruits  of  seasons  as  they  roll, 
If  human  hearts  bow  not  to  Him  who  guides  the  whole. 

Dark  the  palazzo  of  the  sunny  south 
To  him  whose  spirit  broods  o'er  wrong  and  ill  ; 
Dark  the  fresh  bloom  of  innocence  and  youth 
To  the  chained  victim  of  his  own  wild  will! 
Love's  first  warm  gush  and  Joy's  electric  thrill 
Stern  passion  changeth  into  bitter  grief, 
But  meek  contentedness  abideth  still, 
And  humble  trust  that  is  its  own  relief, — 
The  blossomed  seed  in  spring— the  golden  autumn  sheaf 

Like  twilight  shed  from  treetops  on  blue  streams, 
The  future  shadoweth  o'er  the  yearning  mind, 
That  is  a  dim  and  dusky  heaven  of  dreams, 
Where  high  events  are  uttered  by  the  wind ; 


358  THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

Yet  to  a  bosom  humbled  and  resigned 
Still  there  is  Hope — high,  holy  hope,  that  soars 
To  realms  the  dervise  never  yet  divined, 
Where  seraphs  wander  by  elysian  shores, 
And  thronging  World  on  World  the  Eternal  One  adores. 

The  lone  heart  looks  and  lingers  and  still  yearns 
To  drink  the  bann'd  cup  of  that  awful  lore, 
Which  dwells  among  the  ashes  of  death's  urns, 
And  is  poured  forth  on  that  untravelled  shore, 
Whence  parte4  spirits  can  return  no  more ! 
But,  oh,  the  quest  is  vain ;  the  burning  thirst 
Of  knowledge  never  can  be  quenched  before 
The  chains  that  bind  the  struggling  spirit  burst, 
And  the  free  soul  departs  to  realize  the  worst. 

But  well  our  searching  thought  these  shapes  may  deem, 
These  sheeted  shadows  and  mysterious  forms, 
No  strange  creations  of  a  feverish  dream, 
That  come  and  vanish  on  the  wings  of  storms, 
But  Spirits  whom  the  fire  of  glory  warms, 
Who  from  the  sepulchre  of  darkness  come, 
From  the  cold  mansion  of  corroding  worms, 
To  soothe  the  sadness  of  despairing  doom, 
And  with  a  gentle  love  lead  Earth's  beloved  home ! 

Sweet  messages  of  mercy  may  invite 
Blest  ones  to  wander  mid  their  own  loved  kin, 
That  they  may  minister  to  their  delight, 
And  shield  their  hearts  from  error  and  from  sin ; 
So,  by  this  hallowed  commune,  they  may  win 
Offenders  from  the  path  that  leads  to  woe, 
And  guide  them  where  the  holy  enter  in 
The  heaven  of  heavens — the  home  that  cannot  know 
That  sorrow,  sin  and  death  which  visit  all  below. 

O  THOU  !  the  beautiful,  the  loved,  the  lost, 
For  whom  unwonted  tears  are  shed  alone ! 
Hear,  thou  of  all  on  earth  beloved  the  most, 
O  hear  my  song  beneath  the  eternal  throne ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

To  what  far  realm,  fair  sister,  art  thou  gone  ? 
Where  is  thy  dwelling  with  the  purified  ] 
Hear'st  thou  thy  brother's  deep  and  bitter  moan  ? 
Cleanse  thou  his  heart  and  check  his  human  pride — 
The  seraph  be  thou  wert!  that  with  thee  I  had  died! 

In  the  fresh  bud  of  being  thou  wert  swept 
From  the  glad  earth  and  the  rejoicing  sky, 
And  stranger  hearts,  o'ergushing,  deeply  wept, 
That  one  so  blest  and  beautiful  could  die! 
Oh  !  many  a  bosom  heaved  its  first  low  sigh 
O'er  beauty's  blight  and  genius'  early  doom, 
And,  well  do  I  remember,  every  eye 
Looked  from  the  shadow  of  its  mournful  gloom, 
While  Mary's  lovely  brow  was  darkened  by  the  tomb. 

I  would  not  thou  wert  here ;  earth  is  a  cold, 
A  cuel  sojourn  to  the  pure  and  mild, 
And  none  can  long  the  sweet  affections  hold 
Of  such  as  thou,  blest  sister,  undefiled  ! 
But  when  in  memory  thine  eye  hath  smiled, 
And  thy  voice  came  like  songs  from  glory's  sphere, 
While  I  roamed  sadly  o'er  earth's  desert  wild, 
I  oft  have  sighed  to  meet  thee,  sister  dear ! 
Where  thou  art  still  the  same  as  when  our  blessing  here. 

Thou,  too,  my  father !  ere  thy  son  could  catch 
And  paint  thine  image  on  his  glowing  breast, 
Wert  taken  from  thy  skill'd  and  patient  watch 
O'er  men  by  ills  afflicted  and  distrest, 
To  the  lone  chamber  of  thy  silent  rest! 
I  cannot  well  remember  thee;  there  floats 
A  proud  veiled  image  by  me — half  expressed  ; 
An  eye  that  bears  the  spirit  it  devotes, 
A  brow,  a  face,  a  form,  but  faint  as  sunbeam  motes. 

It  is  not  oft  thy  name  is  uttered  now, 
For  men  are  false  to  fame,  and  thou  wert  proud, 
But  some  have  told  me  that  I  bear  thy  brow, 
And  like  theo  move  among  the  huddled  crowd ; 


360  THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

If  thus  it  be,  my  father !  though  the  shroud 
Is  dust  upon  thy  heart,  thy  spirit  still 
Lives  in  thy  firstborn  boy,  who  hath  avowed, 
And  will  uphold  the  grandeur  of  thy  will, 
And,  till  the  death  decreed,  thy  great  designs  fulfil. 

It  is  a  pleasant  thought  that  thou  mayst  know 
From  all  that  live  the  person  of  thy  son; 
Yet  I  would  not  thou  shouldst  behold  his  woe, 
But  mark  his  ordeals  passed — his  trophies  won — 
Teach  him  to  bear  his  trials,  yet  begun, 
And  follow  Virtue — though  a  banished  queen, 
And  Honour,  where  high  deeds  in  youth  are  done, 
Reckless  of  all  that  may  be  or  hath  been, 
If  it  exalt  us  not  above  this  grovelling  scene. 

Among  the  ancient  hills  of  Warwick  sleeps 
A  lake  that  mirrors  the  blue  bending  skies, 
And  round  its  waters  lone  the  Mountain  sweeps, 
Whose  pinnacles  are  thrones  of  destinies : 
And  by  that  sunny  lake's  green  margin  lies 
A  garden-plot  choked  up  with  poison  weeds, 
And  in  the  midst  a  Ruin ;  there  these  eyes 
First  drank  the  beauty  of  a  world  that  bleeds, 
Amid  its  thousand  charms,  o'er  Passion's  evil  deads. 

And  o'er  a  beetling  crag  a  palmer  bent 
At  that  young  hour — a  wild  and  brainsick  man — 
And  through  the  clouds  of  future  being  sent 
His  spirit:  coalblack  was  his  hair,  but  wan 
His  lips  that  seemed  to  mutter  o'er  a  ban. 
He  spake  of  sorrow  and  an  orphan  boy, 
And  widowhood  in  summer  years  began, 
And  guardian  guilt  and  toil  without  a  joy, 
And  yet  a  gifted  Mind  no  trial  could  destroy. 

That  palmer's  footstep  prints  no  more  the  earth, 
But  his  dim  oracles  were  words  of  truth  : 
My  sire — my  sister — many  a  friend  of  worth 
No  more  watch  o'er  my  melancholy  youth, 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  SEPULCHRE.  ^01 

And  kindred  friends  are  few,  and  foes,  in  sooth, 
Amid  the  mazes  of  earth's  withering  gloom, 
Like  scorpions  crawl  and  pierce,  with  barbed  tooth, 
My  heart,  that  dares  the  worst  of  evil  doom, 

And  will  not  cower  nor  quail  till  shrouded  in  the  tomb. 

.   . 

But  happier  thoughts  and  holier  feelings  wake, 
And  man  may  learn  to  seek  his  trust  above, 
Unawed  by  all  the  world  can  give  or  take, 
Confiding  in  the  fountain  of  all  love ! 
Resigned  and  holy  faith  will  ever  prove 
The  highest  hope,  the  purest  bliss — the  best 
And  only  gift  that  nothing  can  remove! 
Lean  thy  sick  heart  on  heaven  and  be  at  rest! 
Who  early  seek  such  strength  wrill  be  forever  blest. 

Hold  sweet  communion  with  loved  ones  who  sleep,  • 
Yet  not  unconscious  of  thy  love  and  woe, 
In  Death's  cold  arms,  yet  in  their  bosoms  keep 
Such  high  affection  thou  for  them  dost  show  ! 
For  thee  their  spirits  still  with  young  love  glow, 
For  thee  they  whisper  in  the  evening  wind 
Soft  soothing  words,  that  like  blue  waters  flow; — 
"  Though  dead,  our  love  yet  lingers  all  behind — 
"  For  thee  in  heaven  we  dwell — be  thou  to  heaven  resigned  !" 

Reason  is  blind  in  mysteries  revealed, 
And  thought  is  folly  o'er  our  destiny ; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  unto  all  is  sealed, 
Alike  to  worshipper  and  Sadducee, 
Alike  to  Muterin  and  Osmanlee; 
And  faint  and  finite  is  the  brightest  gleam 
Of  our  chained  spirits  o'er  Eternity; 
Wisdom  must  wait  on  fevered  passion's  dream, 
And  solemn  awe  direct  the  thoughts  we  dare  to  deem. 

• 

We  die  with  every  friend  that  parts  from  earth, 
But  live  again  with  every  soul  whose  home 
Is  the  blue  ether.     From  our  hour  of  birth 
Lost  loved  ones  are  around  us,  and  they  come 
46 


362  OLYMPIADS. 

Into  our  thoughts,  like  moonlight,  when  we  roarn 
In  silvery  silence  'neath  the  starlight  sky; 
They  charm  in  grief,  irradiate  in  gloom, 
Impart  meek  gladness  to  the  brow  and  eye, 
And  teach  our  weary  hearts  that  spirits  never  die. 


OLYMPIADS. 

MARRIED  LOVE  AND  MARRED  LOVE 

I  WEDDED  the  Beloved — the  Beautiful ! 

She  had  an  eye  like  Spring's  first  flowers,  or  stars 

At  summer  twilight,  and  a  high  pale  brow 

Of  tender  beauty,  where  the  wandering  veins, 

Like  hidden  rivulets,  revealed  the  gift 

Of  Mind  ;  while  Thought  upon  her  Grecian  face 

Sat  like  a  Seraph  on  his  throne  when  all 

The  angelic  princedoms  bow  before  their  God. 

Pure  as  the  maymorn  breeze,  or  beaded  dews, 

That  diadem  the  rose — in  every  thought 

The  creature  of  a  blest  humanity 

And  purified  affection — she  became, 

E'en  to  my  earliest  glance,  the  evening  star, 

(The  holy  light  that  hushes  all  to  peace) 

Of  a  lone  heart,  that  lingered  o'er  past  hours 

And  basked  in  vain  though  glorious  imagery. 

I  looked  and  loved,  and  o'er  my  spirit  came 

The  rush  of  solemn  feelings  (golden  clouds, 

Though  dim  and  fading,  on  the  wings  of  years) 

And  all  the  idol  memories  of  life 


OLYMPIADS.  3f33 

Went  by  like  music  on  a  summer  eve. 

Love  !  't  is  the  dream  of  every  young  pure  heart, 

A  fairy  vision  of  a  better  sphere, 

A  rainbow,  resting  on  a  world  of  woe, 

But  leading  unto  heaven;  a  charm  in  hope 

To  all,  though  unto  few  the  holiest  bliss 

Of  earth — the  earnest  of  eternal  heaven. 

Passion's  young  pilgrim,  I  had  roamed  afar 
O'er  foreign  lands,  where  unfamiliar  tongues 
And  aspects  strange  saluted  me ;  my  ear 
Had  ceased  to  hear  the  tender  voice  of  love, 
And  never  trusted  words  that  knew  no  heart. 
I  long  had  roamed  the  world  in  utter  scorn 
Of  all  man  toils  to  gain  and  cast  away ; 
And  lingering  time  hung  o'er  me  like  a  sky 
Of  deep,  dull,  chilling  clouds,  without  or  light 
Or  darkness,  and  all  human  things  to  me 
Brought  neither  love  nor  hate,  but  one  dead  waste 
Of  life  and  all  its  passions,  hopes  and  fears. 
'-   ' 

I  trod  my  Native  Land  again,  unchanged 

In  the  deep  love  my  spirit  bears  to  thee, 

Divinest  Liberty  !  but  hopeless  else 

Of  all  the  common  happiness  of  man. 

Forecast  not  fate,  nor  to  thyself  appoint 

Thy  destiny  !  for,  over  all  supreme, 

A  power  directs  our  days  and  their  events 

Unseen,  all  prescient  and  inscrutable  ; 

And,  in  the  world,  full  oft  a  single  word, 

Uttered  unwarily,  will  more  avail 

Thy  welfare,  than  long  years  of  vain  pursuit, 

Passion  and  tempest  and  unslackened  toil. 

I  long  had  deemed  that  earth  held  many  hearts 

Deep,  proud  and  high  like  mine,  but  what  I  sought 

With  martyrlike  devotion — vainly  sought — 

Came  in  an  hour  when  hope  had  passed  away, 

And  chance  assumed  her  empire  o'er  my  fate. 

Deep  streams  will  mingle,  though  their  fountains  rise 

A  thousand  leagues  asunder :  so  will  hearts, 


364  OLYMPIADS. 

Whose  feelings  ever  blend,  though  far  apart 
Born,  and  in  fancy  for  another  fate. 
We  met — we  loved,  and  she  became  to  me 
A  solace  and  the  hope  of  better  days. 

I  had  looked  forward  to  this  sacred  hour 

As  look  the  weary  mariners  for  land, 

As  captives  for  the  day  that  sets  them  free, 

As  desert  pilgrims  for  Zahara's  wells, 

As  saints  for  paradise.     Love  was  to  me 

My  sainted  father's  only  dying  gift 

Not  clutched  away  from  a  young  orphan's  grasp, 

And  the  o'ergushing  heart  will  spread  o'er  earth 

A  paradise  of  bloom,  or  on  the  waste 

Of  an  unthankful  world  pour  out  its  life. 

Affections  unbestowed,  in  the  deep  spring 

Of  o'erfraught  bosoms  dwelling,  like  pent  streams, 

Stagnate  in  their  large  affluence  ;  but  unlocked, 

Bear  wealth  and  beauty  in  their  silent  flow. 

To  throw  one's  self  upon  a  kindred  heart, 

To  love  as  angels  do— to  know  one's  hopes 

And  fears  are  shared  by  a  devoted  bride; 

To  cling  through  good  and  evil  to  the  shrine 

Whence  bridal  vows  ascended  to  the  skies  ; 

This  to  my  bosom  had  been  paradise ; 

But  ever  had  I  felt  'twas  to  search 

For  what  my  spirit,  in  its  lonely  moods, 

Had  imaged  out — for,  oh,  too  well  I  knew 

Such  high  revealings  had  no  earthly  type. 

In  other  days,  when  earth  and  air  and  sea 
Glowed  with  the  glory  of  ambition's  dreams, 
Passion  awoke,  and  worshipped  at  the  shrine 
Of  a  pure  heart  with  all  the  earnest  love, 
The  wild  adoring  of  a  soul  that  cast 
The  world  away  to  win  a  heaven  below. 
But  evil  came — a  blight  was  on  my  love, 
The  storm  rushed  o'er  the  sunbeam,  and,  amid 
The  darkness  of  a  deep  unnatural  night, 


OLYMPIADS.  305 

Rude  hands  bore  oft' the  idol  of  my  youth  ! 

— Ten  years  have  died  !  to  linger  on  the  days 

And  mark  their  thoughts  and  deeds,  long  ages  pass 

Like  endless  shadows  o'er  me ;  but  to  fly 

To  Housatonic's  stream  and  Derby's  hills 

And  that  old  mansion,  whose  great  balcony 

Hung  o'er  the  waters — brief  as  hope  appears 

The  Olympiad  of  my  first  unhappy  love. 

Through  the  dark  night  I  saw  the  glimmering  sail 

Resting  upon  the  wave :  I  saw  the  barque, 

And  heard  the  dash  of  oars  that  bore  away 

My  heart's  best  hope — Despair  hath  dreadful  strength  ! 

I  saw  the  vessel  glide  away,  and  heard 

Voices  upon  the  deep  until  they  came 

O'er  me  like  the  far  sounds  of  dreams  !     And  then — 

— Then  I  went  forth,  a  man,  mid  other  men, 

Not  to  lament — the  proselyte  of  fools — 

Nor  rail,  like  girls  hysteric,  nor  arraign 

The  doom  of  evil ;  but  to  feel  and  bear, 

To  think  and  keep  deep  silence,  and  to  love 

Too  sacredly  for  earth  to  know  my  love. 

I  sought  not  dim  forgetfulness,  but  nursed 

Memory  and  loved  the  blissful  pangs  she  brought. 

Years  past,  but  I  remembered  her,  and  then 
My  heart  grew  milder  than  in  other  times, 
And  when  I  thought  of  the  loved  one,  't  was  not 
With  bitterness,  but  tender  melancholy, 
Shadowed  and  softened  by  the  lapse  of  years 
And  many  changes.     Like  the  gushing  forth 
Of  twilight  waters  or  the  whispering  stir 
Of  dewy  leaves,  or  breath  of  fading  flowers, 
The  memory  of  our  young  and  blighted  love 
Came  o'er  me,  and  't  was  blessedness  to  think 
How  I  had  loved  her — though  my  bosom  bled 
O'er  my  lone  grief  and  her  dark  sacrifice. 
O'er  the  wild  surges  of  the  ocean  oft 
My  spirit  wandered  back  when  far  away, 
But  with  a  settled  grief  serene ;  none  knew 
From  outward  mildness  and  smooth  courtesy 


366  OLYMPIADS. 

And  mannerly  respect  of  customs  old, 

That  passion's  flood  had  left  my  heart  a  waste. 

Lost  to  my  arms  but  not  my  love — I  knew 

Her  days  could  not  be  blest  in  this  wrong  world, 

And  never  would  I  by  remotest  word 

Waken  a  scorpion  in  her  wedded  heart. 

She  was  a  thing  of  holiness — high  throned 

As  among  cherubim,  beheld  far  off, 

And  worshipped  unapproached ;  and  oft  I  wept 

And  prayed  that  she  might  calmly  bear  the  task, 

The  bitter  task,  that  was  her  portion  here, 

Without  repining  o'er  the  fatal  hours 

That  fled  like  morning  stars  ;  and  'twas  my  trust 

That  he — her  unknown  wedded  lord — might  prove 

Gentle  and  faithful  to  the  blighted  flower  ! 

And  never — never  would  I  see  her  more, 

Though,  sometimes,  tidings  of  her  lot  would  come, 

Like  desert  blasts  or  storms  at  equinox, 

To  darken  the  bright  stream  of  wandering  thought. 

So  all  my  deep  affections  mellowed  down 

Into  a  sorrow  gentle  as  the  sigh 

Of  the  low  evening  wind  through  autumn  woods. 

As  I  have  said,  I  wedded  the  Beloved ! 
'T  was  when  the  sweet  autumnal  days  came  on, 
And  earth  was  full  of  beauty,  and  the  heavens 
Of  glory,  and  the  heart  of  man  of  praise. 
I  gave  her  all  the  deep  love  of  a  heart 
Long  tried  and  faithful  unto  worse  than  death, 
And  she  did  love  me  more  that  I  had  loved 
With  a  fidelity  and  strength  alike 
Unconquered  by  repulse  and  woe  and  time. 
Her  smiles  went  o'er  my  bosom  like  the  air 
O'er  flowering  shrubs  and  honeysuckle  bowers, 
And  she,  at  times,  was  mirthful  as  the  birds 
In  the  sweet  month  of  May ;  and  then  again 
Quietly  sad  as  any  nightingale. 
Playful,  yet  full  of  feeling,  innocent 
Without  suspecting  guile,  in  smiles  and  tears 


THE  DESERT  HORSEMAN.  367 

Pleasant  as  stars  when  fancy  images 
The  thrones  of  angels  there,  she  gently  taught 
Forgetfulness  of  many  an  irking  ill, 
Lost  in  the  beauty  of  her  winsome  smile, 
And  did  become,  first  in  herself,  and  then 
In  the  blest  offerings  of  love,  a  world, 
Where  peril,  calumny  and  pain  are  lost 
In  this  revealment  of  restoring  Heaven. 


THE    DESERT    HORSEMAN.* 

THE  lightning  glared,  and  the  wild  wind  blew, 

And  the  hurtling  thunder  broke, 
And  awfully  black  the  storm-clouds  grew 

Beneath  each  wrathful  stroke  ; 
When  the  Warrior  Chief  of  the  wild  woods  sprung 

On  the  Desert's  coal-black  steed — 
Oh  !  fearfully  then  the  dark  skies  rung 

As  they  trump'd  the  awful  deed  ! 

The  plumes  of  the  eagle  waved  o'er  his  brow, 

And  his  tomahawk  glistened  bright, 
And  his  bended*  bow  and  his  arrows  now 

Were  ready  for  the  fight ; 
The  scalping-knife  hung  at  his  wampum  belt 

And  his  mantle  loosely  flowed — 
Oh  !  who  may  tell  what  the  Warrior  felt 

As  thus  with  the  winds  he  rode? 

On,  on  to  the  desert ! — Hegon's  eye 
'Mid  the  gloom  like  a  meteor  burned, 

When  the  furnace  fire  of  the  midnight  sky 
To  cavern  darkness  turned, 

*  Founded  on  a  tradition  of  the  Oneida  Indians. 


368 


THE  DESERT   HORSEMAN. 


And  his  warwhoop  pealed  through  the  pathless  wood 

As  he  hurried  madly  on ; 
And  the  wild  horse  dashed  through  marsh  and  flood — 

Oh  !  where  hath  the  Chieftain  gone  ? 

Hark  !— 'tis  the  shout  of  the  Indian  band 

That  rises  loud  behind  ; 
And  the  Warrior  lifts  his  blood-red  hand, 

And  hurries  with  the  wind 
Through  the  haunted  glen  and  the  trampled  dell, 

And  the  woodland  plain  of  gore, 
Where  his  Huron  foes  in  the  battle  fell 

A  thousand  years  before. 

And  he  vanisheth  by  the  hallowed  vale 

Where  his  fathers'  sepulchres  lay, 
And  a  thousand  ghosts  with  whoop  and  wail 

Do  hurry  him  on  his  way, 
While  the  lightnings  flare  and  the  thunders  break, 

And  the  dark  gale  howls  along — 
Yet  the  Chieftain's  heart  it  doth  not  quake, 

But  he  bears  him  high  and  strong. 

On,  on  to  the  desert ! — wildly  bend 

The  moaning  woods  around, 
And  the  thick  ravines  of  the  mountains  send 

A  hollow  deathlike  sound  ; 
And  the  beasts  of  the  forest  howl  and  cry 

For  the  heart  of  the  Indian  Chief, 
But  the  Sagamore  hurries  quickly  by 

As  the  hurricane  bears  the  leaf. 

On  the  wild  steed's  back  he  stands  upright, 

And  his  warwhoop  shrieks  afar, 
And  he  draws  his  bow  with  a  monarch's  might 

At  a  light  like  a  distant  star; 
And  a  wail  arose  in  the  morning  there, 

For  an  innocent  child  was  dead, 
And  the  arrow  hung  in  its  bosom  fair — 

But  where  had  the  murderer  fled  ? 


THE  DESERT    HORSEMAN. 

On  the  horse  of  the  desert  Hegon  stood, 

And  the  trees  shrunk  back  as  he  passed, 
While  the  bkck  steed's  hoofs  through  the  lonely  wood 

Crashed  louder  than  the  blast ; 
And  the  serpent,  coiled  in  his  venom  fold, 

Sprang  vainly  from  his  den, 
For  far  away  over  wood  and  wold, 

The  horse  rushed  through  the  glen. 

And  a  thousand  men  had  vainly  striven 

To  stay  that  wild  career — 
With  the  arrowy  bolts  of  the  midnight  heaven 

Rode  Hegon,  void  of  fear  ; 
And  his  tomahawk  struck  on  the  forest  trees, 

As  he  passed  with  terror  by, 
And  the  wild  wood  fell — and  the  morning  breeze 

Shook  the  sear  leaves  o'er  the  sky. 

Thus  the  Prophet  Chief  in  his  terrors  passed 

To  the  hunting  ground  of  souls, 
'Mid  the  lightning's  glare  and  the  tempest's  blast, 

Where,  from  their  secret  holes, 
The  moose  and  the  deer  start  up  and  scud 

Before  the  hunter's  bow, 
While  his  arrow  drinks  their  red,  red  blood  — 

This  Kichtan*  doth  bestow. 

Thus  Hegon  passed  in  his  war  array, 

On  the  coalblack  steed  of  Death, 
To  the  Land  of  Souls,  where  the  warm  clear  day 

Is  Areouski'sf  breath,— 
And  far  in  the  northern  wood,  at  night, 

The  Oneida  poets  tell 
How  Hegon  rode  in  his  warrior  might, 

Where  only  warriors  dwell. 

*  The  god  of  hunting.  fThe  Sod  of  war- 

48 


VISIONS    OF    ROMANCE. 


WHEN  dark-brow'd  midnight  o'er  the  slumbering  world 

Mysterious  shadows  and  bewildering  throws, 

And  the  tired  wings  of  human  thought  are  furled, 

And  sleep  descends  like  dew  upon  the  rose, 

How  full  of  bliss  the  poet's  vigil  hour 

When  o'er  him  elder  Time  hath  magic  power ! 

Before  his  eye  past  ages  stand  revealed 
When  feudal  chiefs  held  lordly  banquettings, 
In  the  spoil  revelling  of  flood  and  field, 
Among  their  vassals  proud  unquestioned  kings : 
While  honoured  minstrels  round  the  ample  board 
The  lays  of  love  or  songs  of  battle  poured. 

Mid  loud  wassail  and  legend  quaint  and  jest, 

The  horn-rimm'd  goblet,  pledge  of  heart  and  hand, 

To  knightly  lips  in  solemn  faith  is  pressed, 

And  rose-lipped  mirth  waits  on  the  warrior-band, 

To  whom  the  brand  and  cup  alike  are  dear, 

The  storm  of  battle  and  the  banquet's  cheer. 

Throned  on  his  dais  the  proud  old  chief  looked  o'er 

The  lengthening  lines  of  haughty  barons  there, 

And  listened  to  the  minstrel's  rhythmic  lore; 

Or  boon  accorded  to  the  suppliant's  prayer ; 

Or  planned  the  chase  through  wood  and  mountain  dell, 

Or  roused  his  guests  by  feuds  remembered  well. 


VISIONS  OF  ROMANCE.  371 

The  dinted  helmet,  with  its  broken  crest, 

The  serried  sabre  and  the  shattered  shield 

Hung  round  the  wainscot  dark  and  well  expressed 

That  wild,  fierce  pride  which  scorned  unscathed  to  yield ; 

And  pictures  there  with  dusky  glory  rife 

From  age  to  age  bore  down  stern  characters  of  strife. 

Amid  long  lines  of  glorious  ancestry, 

Whose  eyes  flashed  o'er  them  from  the  old  gray  walls, 

What  craven  quails  at  danger's  lightning  eye? 

What  warrior  blenches  when  his  brother  falls? 

Bear  witness,  Crescy  and  red  Agincourt! 

Bosworth  and  Bannockburn  and  Marston  Moor ! 


The  long  lone  corridors — the  antlered  hall — 
The  massive  walls — the  all  commanding  towers — 
Where  revel  reigned  and  masquerading  ball, 
And  beauty  won  stern  warriors  to  her  bowers — 
In  ancient  grandeur  o'er  the  spirit  move 
With  all  their  forms  of  chivalry  and  love. 

The  voice  of  centuries  bursts  upon  the  soul — 
Long-buried  ages  wake  and  live  again — 
Past  feats  of  fame  and  deeds  of  glory  roll, 
Achieved  for  ladye-love  in  knighthood's  reign ; 
And  all  the  simple  state  of  olden  Time 
Assumes  a  garb  majestic  and  sublime. 

The  steel-clad  champion  on  his  vaulting  steed, 
The  mitred  primate,  and  the  Norman  lord, 
The  peerless  maid  awarding  valour's  meed, 
And  the  meek  vestal  who  her  God  adored — 
The  pride,  the  pomp,  the  power  and  charm  of  earth 
From  Fancy's  dome  of  living  thought  come  forth. 

The  sacred  orri  flamme  in  war's  red  tide 

Waves  mid  the  shivering  shock  of  lance  and  brand, 

And  trump-like  voices  burst  in  shouts  of  pride 

O'er  foes  whose  blood  hath  stained  the  wasted  land ; 

Hark!  through  the  convent-shades  triumphal  songs! 

Lo   the  rich  shrine  ! — thus  saints  avenge  our  wrongs ! 


S72  VISIONS  OF  ROMANCE. 

O'er  kneeling  penitents  at  the  abbey's  shrine 
Absolving  voices  speak  God's  benison,  , 

And  lonely  cloisters  echo  prayers  divine 
From  many  a  holy,  world-forsaking  nun, 
Before  the  image  of  the  Crucified 
Bowed  in  prostration  of  all  worldly  pride. 

The  pale-brow'd  vestal  and  the  dark  stoled  friar, 
The  beaded  monk  whose  heart  is  in  his  grave, 
Raise  their  low  voices  in  the  holy  choir, 
While  in  response  the  solemn  yew  trees  wave ; 
And  through  the  cloisters  and  lone  aisles  they  sigh 
That  hope  smiles  not  for  them  beneath  the  sky. 

Beyond  the  holy  walls  stern  warriors  sleep 

Who  gloried  in  their  highborn  ancientry; 

Whose  war-steeds  erst  in  many  a  desperate  leap 

O'er  lance  and  spear  went  on  right  gloriously — 

Carved  on  the  tombstone,  rests  the  brave  knight's  form — 

Where  is  the  knight  ?     Ask  not  the  battening  worm  ! 

The  feast  is  o'er,  the  huntsman's  course  is  done, 
The  trump  of  war — the  shrill  horn  sounds  no  more — 
The  heroic  revellers  from  the  hall  have  gone — 
The  lone  blast  moans  the  ruined  castle  o'er ! 
The  spell  of  beauty  and  the  pride  of  power 
Have  passed  forever  from  the  feudal  tower. 

No  more  the  drawbridge  echoes  to  the  tread 

Of  visored  knights  o'ercanopied  with  gold, 

O'er  mouldering  gates  and  crumbling  archways  spread, 

Dark  ivy  waves  in  many  a  mazy  fold, 

Where  chiefs  flashed  vengeance  from  their  lightning  glance, 

And  grasped  the  brand  and  couched  the  conquering  lance. 

But  all  hath  not  in  silence  perished  here — 

The  deep,  still  voice  of  lost  power  will  be  heard ; 

Mysterious  spectres  in  the  gloom  appear 

As  still  in  death  they  would  be  shunned  and  feared; 

All  is  not  lost — the  bright  electric  air 

Glows  with  the  spirits  of  the  great  that  were  ! 


VISIONS  OF  ROMANCE.  373 

One  generation  from  another  draws 

Greatness  and  glory  added  to  its  own ; 

It  breathes  the  spirit  of  the  primal  laws, 

And  makes  the  heart  a  freeborn  nation's  throne; 

Time  treads  in  dust  earth's  highest  pride  and  fame, 

But  thoughts  of  power  forever  are  the  same. 

Oh,  who  so  weak  as  ponder  on  the  tomb  ? 

The  dead  are  nothing! — drink  the  mountain  breeze 

Or  roam  o'er  ruins  wrapt  in  ages'  gloom, 

And  hoard  thou  well  Earth's  silent  mysteries ! 

The  Past  is  written  in  the  lightning's  glare 

To  bid  the  Future  for  its  doom  prepare. 

The  gorgeous  pageantry  of  times  gone  by, 
The  tilt,  the  tournament,  the  vaulted  hall, 
Fades  in  its  glory  on  the  spirit's  eye, 
And  fancy's  bright  and  gay  creations — all 
Sink  into  dust  when  reason's  searching  glance 
Unmasks  the  age  of  knighthood  and  romance. 

For  fatal  feuds  from  unknown  sources  sprung, 
Raged  unrepressed  and  unappeased,  by  tears ; 
And  (shame  to  tell!)  the  royal  minstrels  sung 
Oppression's  poaan  in  those  darkened  years; 
Then  empire  hung  upon  the  arm  of  power, 
And  fate  frowned  o'er  the  dark  embattled  tower. 

Like  lightning  hurtled  o'er  the  lurid  skies, 
Their  glories  flash  along  the  gloom  of  years; 
The  beaconlights  of  Time,  to  wisdom's  eyes, 
O'er  the  deep  rolling  stream  of  human  tears. 
Fade!  fade!  ye  visions  of  antique  Romance! 
Tower,  casque  and  mace,  and  helm  and  bannered  lance! 


HOPE. 

LIKE  the  foam  on  the  billow 

As  it  heaves  o'er  the  deep, 
Like  a  tear  on  the  pillow 

When  we  sigh  in  our  sleep, 
Like  the  syren    that  sings, 

We  cannot  tell  where, 
Is  the  Hope  that  hath  wings, 

The  phantom  of  air! 

Like  the  starlight  of  gladness 

When  it  gleams  in  death's  eye, 
Or  the  meteor  of  madness 

In  the  spirit's  dark  sky ; 
Like  the  zephyrs  that  perish 

With  the  breath  of  their  birth, 
Are  the  hopes  that  we  cherish — 

Poor  bondmen  of  earth! 

The  pleasures  and  pains, 

That  pass  o'er  us  below, 
Fade  like  colours  and  stains 

On  the  cold  winter's  snow  ; 
All  the  loves  of  the  bosom 

That  burns  with  delight, 
Are  mildew'd  in  blossom 

And  withered  with  blight. 

The  sunbeam  of  feeling 

Lights  the  ruins  of  love, 
And  sorrow  is  stealing 

O'er  the  visions  above; 
Like  a  spirit  unblest, 

Hope  wanders  alone, 
With  a  heart  ne'er  at  rest, 

In  the  future  or  gone. 


375 


She  drinks  from  Time's  cup 

The  bright  nectar  of  heaven, 
And  her  spirit  mounts  up 

'Mid  the  glories  of  even ; 
But  the  world  drugs  with  death 

The  chalice  of  bliss, 
As  the  nightingale's  breath 

Wafts  the  rattlesnake's  hiss. 

From  the  bowers  of  repose 

Like  a  spectre  she  starts, 
And  she  breathes  the  spring's  rose 

O'er  the  depths  of  all  hearts ; 
But  fancy  and  feeling 

Must  vanish  in  sorrow, 
Struck  hearts  have  no  healing — 

Hope  sighs  o'er  tomorrow.     ' 


THE  FATHER'S  LEGACY. 


BY  Hudson's  glorious  stream,  in  death's  cold  rest, 
Thy  head  lies  low,  my  great  and  gallant  sire ! 
Pillowed  in  peace  on  earth's  eternal  breast, 
No  more  thy  bosom  pants  with  hope's  desire. 
Now,  more  than  ever,  doth  thy  name  inspire, 
For  lingering  years  have  wept  above  thy  grave, 
And  shed  their  cold  dews  o'er  my  lonely  lyre, 
But  to  enhance  the  grief  that  could  not  save, 
The  settled  woe  that  sighs  o'er  Hudson's  midnight  wave. 


376 

In  the  first  gush  and  glory  of  my  years, 
Ere  reason  glowed,  or  memory  held  her  power, 
Thy  pale  proud  brow  was  wet  with  infant  tears, 
And  wild   cries  rose  in  thy  deserted  bower ! 
Oh,  how  the  dim  remembrance  of  that  hour 
Crowds  on  my  brain  like  night's  most  shadowy  dream, 
When  winds  wail  loud  and  o'erfraught  tempests  lower! 
A  glimpse  of  glory  in  a  meteor's  gleam, 
Sunlight  in  storms — a  flower  upon  the  rushing  stream. 

The  budding  boughs,  the  limpid  light  of  spring, 
The  mirrored  beauty  of  the  brimming  rills, 
The  greenness  and  the  gentle  airs,  that  bring 
Life's  golden  hours  again,  when  heavenly  hills 
And  vales  bore  witness  to  the  soul  that  thrills 
The  heart  of  youth  ere  passion  riots  there — 
Shed  o'er  me  now  the  loveliness  which  fills, 
At  parted  seasons,  such  as  wed  despair 
When  being's  dayspring  breaks  and  all  but  life  is  fair. 

Yet  from  this  scene  of  most  surpassing  love, 
Not  unrefreshed,  I  turn  to  happier  years, 
Quick  in  their, flight,  when  through  the  highland  grove 
I  ran  to  meet  thee  with  ecstatic  tears, 
And  in  thine  arms  forgot  my  deepest  fears ! 
Oh,  then  thou  wert  to  me  what  I  am  now* 
To  one  blest  boy — my  sorrow's  bliss — who  wears 
The  very  majesty  of  thy  high  brow, 
The  pride,  the  thought,  the  power,  that  in  thine  eye  did  glow. 

No  proud  sarcophagus  thy  corse  enshrines, 
No  mausoleum  mocks  thy  mouldering  dust, 
But  there  the  rose,  amid  its  mazy  vines, 
Blooms  like  thy  spirit  with  the  pure  and  just ; 
And — image  of  earth's  high  and  holy  trust — 
Deep  verdure  smiles  and  wafts  its  breath  to  heaven, 
And,  holier  far  than  antique  print  or  bust, 
Lives  in  my  heart  the  portrait  thou  hast  given, 
The  worship  of  pure  love — the  faith  of  autumn's  even, 

-What,  alas!  I  was. 


THE  FATHER'S  LECJACY.  377 

Thy  Legacy  was  not  the  gold  of  men, 
The  slave  of  pomp,  the  vassal  of  the  mine, 
But  an  o'ermastering  intellect,  that,  when 
The  world  reviled  and  trampled,  soared  divine, 
And  stood  o'erpanopJied  on  GOD'S  own  shrine! 
This  did'st  thou  leave  me,  Father!  and  my  mind 
Hath  been  my  realm  of  glory — as  't  was  thine — 
Though  much  it  irks  me  to  have  cast  behind 
Thy  godlike  skill  to  quell  the  ills  of  human  kind. 

'Twas  thine  to  grapple  with  the  fiend  of  gain, 
'Twas  thine  to  toil  and  triumph  in  the  field — 
It  cannot  be  that  /should  faint  in  pain, 
And  like  a  craven,  to  the  dastard  yield; 
On  the  starr'd  mead,  and  in  the  o'erarching  weald 
It  hath  been  mine  to  think  and  to  be  blest, 
And  oft  on  mountain  pinnacles  I  've  kneeled 
To  pray  I  might  be  gathered  to  my  rest 
With  glory  on  my  brow  and  virtue  in  my  breast. 

Though  anguish  throbs  through  all  my  bosom  now, 
And  wild  tears  gush  whene'er  I  think  of  thee, 
Yet  like  blue  heaven  upon  Cordillera's  brow, 
Thy  memory  clothes  me  with  divinity, 
And  lifts  my  soul  beyond  the  things  that  be, 
The  strife  of  traffic,  falsehood's  common  fear, 
Friendship  betrayed,  unguerdoned  vassalry, 
And  every  ill,  that  reigns  and  riots  here, 
In  this  dark  world  so  far  from  thine  immortal  sphere. 

My  earliest  smiles  were  thine — my  earliest  thought, 
Like  rosy  light  in  morn's  translucent  sky, 
First  from  thine  eye,  my  spirit's  sun,  were  caught; 
And  as  it  gleams  on  days  that  vanish  by, 
It  turns  to  thee,  my  fountain  shrined  on  high ! 
— My  Sister!  is  she  with  thee?  where  thou  art 
Thy  children  fain  would  be! — on  starbeams  fly, 
Spirits  of  Love!  and  in  my  raptured  heart 
Make  Heaven's  own  music  till  my  soul  in  transport  part. 
48 


378  RELIGION  UNREVEALED. 

And  teach  me  with  an  awed  delight  to  tread 
The  darksome  vale  that  all  must  tread  alone, 
And  gift  me  with  the  wisdom  of  the  dead, 
Justly  to  do,  yet  all  unjustly  done, 
Freely  to  pardon ! — Till  the  crown  is  won, 
Be  with  me  in  the  errings  of  my  lot, 
The  many  frailties  of  thine  only  son, 
And  when  brief  records  say  that  he  is  not, 
Hail  his  wronged  spirit  home  where  sorrow  is  forgot! 


RELIGION  UNREVEALED. 


ANCIENT  romance  of  visionary  minds, 
Shadow  and  symbol  of  a  holier  creed! 
To  thee  wild  voices,  wing'd  on  mountain  winds, 
And  countless  hecatombs,  predoomed  to  bleed, 
And  earth  and  heaven,  submissive  to  thy  reed, 
Bore  awful  witness  to  surpassing  thought ; 
And  many  a  vast  emprise  and  godlike  deed 
Rendered  its  glory  to  thy  fane  unsought, 
And  o'er  the  soul  of  man  its  thrilling  magic  wrought. 

Thy  handmaid,  Fable,  shadowed  love  and  truth, 
As  sunset  waters  image  summer  skies ; 
And  genius  blossomed  in  perpetual  youth, 
Wielding  at  will  prophetic  destinies; 
Each  gem  and  pearl,  that  in  dark  silence  lies, 
O'er  thee  its  beauty  like  a  sunbow  shed, 
And  for  the  heaven  of  thought,  that  never  dies, 
Men  toiled  and  suffered,  smiling  while  they  bled, 
Till  heroes,  sages,  bards,  rose  gods  among  the  dead. 


RELIGION  U1YREVEAI.ED.  370 

O'er  unlearned  hearts,  whence  pushed  translucent  rills 
Of  mind,  the  floating  darkness  of  their  day 
Lived  with  the  presence  of  a  Power,  which  fills 
Each  dewbell,  leaf  and  raindrop  with  a  ray 
Of  that  divinity,  all  worlds  obey. 
Clothed  in  his  terrors,  on  his  mountain  throne 
The  Olympian  Thunderer  sat,  upon  the  play 
Of  arrowy  lightnings — weapons  all  his  own — 
Gazing  with  that  dread  eye  which  ever  smiles  alone. 

Below,  that  wondrous  beauty  of  the  heart, 
Dian  of  Delos,  with  a  seraph  brow, 
Threw  the  deep  sanctity  pure  thoughts  impart 
O'er  the  green  vale  of  fountains,  and  the  snow 
Of  high  Olympus.     With  his  shaft  and  bow, 
Apollo  wandered  in  his  matchless  might, 
The  god. of  eloquence  and  song,  ev'n  now 
Invoked  to  crown  the  work  of  minds,  whom  night, 
In  time's  abyss,  then  brooded  o'er  with  still  delight. 

Limpid  and  laughing  waters  leapt  and  sung 
Before  the  nymphs,  and  summer  breezes  came, 
Hymns  of  the  watching  heavens  to  chaunt  among 
The  old  and  solemn  woods — wild  haunts  of  fame! 
The  birthbed  of  full  many  a  deathless  name 
Was  hallowed  first  by  thoughts,  whence  forms  arose 
Of  virtue,  beauty,  glory — all  that  claim 
Resolve  and  wisdom — and  each  wildwood  rose 
And  oak  wreath  gave  the  power  which  great  renown  bestows. 

Imagination's  Eden— Arcady! 
Thy  spirit  triumphs  yet  o'er  waste  and  death; 
Thy  hallowed  hills,  thy  pure  and  glorious  sky, 
And  thy  great  thoughts,  that  burned  in  deeds  beneath, 
And  veiled  with  awe  and  beauty  rock  and  heath, 
To  vast  renown  thy  chosen  name  have  given  ; 
And  not  less  lovely  in  thy  victor  wreath 
Beam  the  bland  smiles,  like  tender  eyes  of  even, 
Of  Oread,  Dryad,  Muse,  robed  in  the  hues  of  heaven, 


380  RELIGION   nXREVEALED. 

The  unsearched  depth  of  the  soul's  mysteries 
Was  to  the  men  of  elder  time  a  home, 
A  heaven,  where  dwelt  their  mightiest  deities, 
Regents  of  good  or  ill — o'er  years  to  come 
Scattering  their  blight  or  brightness  ! — Ocean's  foam 
Gave  birth  to  nature's  crown  of  loveliness, 
Hope  was  their  Iris  through  the  sky  to  roam, 
And  all  their  simple  faith  could  not  but  bless 
Hearts  quick  to  share  all  bliss,  and  soothe  unshunn'd  distress. 

Watchers  and  warders  o'er  the  changing  fate 
Of  life's  brief  season — thrones  of  spirits  blest, 
Where  envy  entered  not,  nor  rival  hate, 
The  stars  were  hope's  eternal  home  of  rest. 
The  o'erwrought  brain,  the  worn  and  wasted  breast 
Drank  in  the  nightsong  of  the  Pleiades, 
Whose  music  of  the  mind,  like  leaves  caressed 
By  dayspring  zephyrs,  winged  on  melodies, 
Wafted  Elysium's  soul  on  every  holy  breeze. 

The  headlong  torrent  with  its  noise  of  war, 
The  brook  that  gurgled  o'er  the  velvet  vale, 
The  hoar  and  giant  mountain,  seen  afar, 
W^hose  dusky  summit  seamen  wont  to  hail, 
Ere  Tiber  or  Piraeus  saw  their  sail — 
The  awful  forest,  and  romantic  wood, 
Each  had  its  god,  its  shrine,  its  song  and  tale, 
Twilight  revealmnnts  of  a  restless  mood, 
Gentle  creations  of  the  heart's  dim  solitude. 

Gymnosophist  or  gnostic  ne'er  beheld 
Wilder  or  fairer  visions ;  every  spot 
Was  peopled  by  divinities;  hills  swelled 
And  valleys  glowed  with  grandeur;  unforgot, 
Man  felt  his  Maker  everywhere,  and  nought 
Dimmed  his  deep  faith  that  they,  whose  features  won 
His  household  prayer,  would  guide  him  to  a  lot 
Blest  as  the  flower  that  blossoms  in  the  sun, 
When  toil  had  gained  its  meed,  and  virtue's  race  was  run. 


THE  CHIEF  OF  HAZOR. 

Fear  had  its  triumphs  then — when  had  it  not? 
Cocytus,  Phlegethon,  the  gulph  of  gloom. 
Forms  shadowless  in  sunlight — shades  of  thought! 
But  sacred  sympathies  o'er  all  did  bloom  ; 
And  the  fair  urn,  unlike  the  mouldering  tomb, 
Freshened  the  memory  of  the  cherished  dead ; 
And,  bending  o'er  it,  love  could  still  illume 
The  father's  ashes,  and  around  them  shed 
The  sunbeams  of  the  soul,  that  followed  when  he  fled. 

Ancient  Romance  !  thy  spirit  o'er  me  came 
In  early  years,  and  many  a  weary  hour 
Hath  glided  by,  like  music,  while  the  fame 
Of  genius  held  me  in  its  welcome  power. 
And  now — though  shadows  rest  upon  thy  bower, 
And  sorrow  weeps  o'er  my  vain  vanished  dreams, — 
I  feel,  thou  hadst  a  great  and  glorious  dower, 
From  whose  vast  treasure,  Time's  unnumbered  streams 
Have  washed  to  us  the  gold  that  in  our  vision  gleams. 


THE   CHIEF   OF  HAZOR. 


The  poem  is  founded  on  the  events  narrated  in  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  book  of 

Judges. 

O'ER  Tabor's  height  and  Ezdraelon's  plain 

The  morn  is  breaking  with  a  silvery  swell 

Of  light,  so  beautiful  that  it  doth  float 

In  the  blest  air,  like  breathing  poetry. 

The  mountain  breeze  comes  o'er  the  dewy  flowers 

With  all  the  freshness  and  elysian  bloom 

Of  the  young  heart  expanding — (Oh  !  how  soon 

To  catch  the  fatal  leprosy  of  guilt !) 

When  its  first  thoughts  run  wild  in  glorious  dreams 

Of  Fairyland  or  Paradise;  and  birds 


'2  THE  CHIEF  OF 

Of  rainbow  plumage  lift  on  high  their  songs, 
Whose  mellow  music  breathes  deep  joy  and  love. 
Along  the  mossy  banks,  o'er  rugged  shelves 
And  sunny  pebbles,  leaps  the  living  brook, 
Rejoicing  in  the  dayspring,  while*  it  drinks 
The  earliest  glory  of  the  sunlight's  gush  ; 
And  the  sweet  face  of  nature  wears  a  smile 
Of  beauty  like  the  image  of  its  God. 

Thy  glorious  Temple,  Heaven  !  thy  matchless  works 

Why  should  the  evil  enter?  why  the  voice 

Of  wailing  rise — the  hollow  groan  of  death — 

The  savage  shriek  of  carnage?  Why  should  blood 

Stain  the  rich  soil  that  giveth  life  to  flowers, 

And  mingle  with  the  sunny  lowland  rill, 

Whose  music  tells  of  quietness  and  love? 

— Alas !  that  man,  whose  hours  are  very  brief, 

Should  seek  to  check  the  race  that  soon  must  end  ! 

The  roar  of  battle  sunk  to  hollow  moans 
Far  o'er  the  reeking  field  and  fast  he  fled, 
The  haughty  Chief  of  Hazor,  Sisera, 
From  his  benetted  chariot,  and  alone, 
Like  a  shunn'd  leper,  held  his  rapid  way 
Through  the  dark  woods  of  Tabor.    Ne'er  before 
Had  Jabin's  captain  quail'd,  though  fearless  foes 
And  mighty  had  come  down  upon  his  host, 
Like  an  unbroken  cataract ;  but  now 
The  hero  fled  in  panic  haste,  and  oft 
He  shudder'd  as  he  heard  the  victor  shout 
Behind ;  and  then  his  proud  o'ermaster'd  heart 
Fell  in  his  bosom  like  the  purple  haze 
Upon  the  desert  pilgrim,  while  he  thought 
That  spear  and  oxgoad  had  availed  against 
His  archers,  clad  in  armour,  and  the  strength 
Of  iron  chariots,  drawn  by  barbed  steeds. 

It  is  a  bitter  thing  to  see  the  pride 

Of  a  high  spirit  thus  cast  down  and  crush'd 

Beneath  the  darkness  of  its  destiny  ; 


THE  CHIEF  OF   RAZOR. 

The  toil  of  years  repaid,  in  one  dark  hour, 
By  scorn  and  infamy;  the  patient  thought, 
The  watching  and  the  weariness — the  brunt 
Of  battle  and  the  countless  woes  of  war 
All  borne  in  vain ;  the  lofty  consciousness 
Of  high  deserving  mantled  o'er  with  shame; 
And  he,  who  long  hath  been  the  battlement 
Of  his  adoring  country — in  whose  eye 
The  King  hath  read  the  oracles  of  war — 
Whose  serried  falchion,  like  a  glorious  star, 
Hath  lighted  oft  the  path  of  victory, 
In  one  brief  hour  dethron'd  from  men's  esteem, 
And  driven  forth  from  his  own  place  of  pride — 
An  outcast — with  a  price  upon  his  head ! 

Dark  was  the  soul  ofSisera!  His  king 

Had  gazed  upon  him  with  an  eye,  whose  light 

Had  shed  its  glory  o'er  his  path !  his  brow 

Had  gleamed  with  victor  radiance  o'er  the  Chief; 

And  higher  honours  mark'd  his  last  farewell. 

The  hoary  seer  of  Ashtaroth  had  blessed 

The  warrior  when  he  parted  for  the  fight ; 

Maidens  had  scatter'd  roses  in  his  path, 

And  beardless  boys  before  his  war-horse  run, 

Shouting  the  name  of  Sisera!   and  now — 

Nor  slain  nor  victor !  thus  before  the  foe, 

The  sons  of  herdmen,  hurrying  like  a  bann'd 

And  outlaw'd  thief!  The  Chief  had  recked  of  death 

And  feared  it  not;  lie  had  not  thought  of  this! 

Alas!  he  knew  not,  till  this  hour,  how  much 

The  human  heart  may  bear — how  darkly  work 

The  mysteries  of  destiny — how  low 

The  loftiest  may  be  humbled,  and  the  best 

Stained,  spurned  and  branded — sealed  and  garnered  up 

To  meet  the  doom  their  pride  seeks  not  to  shun ! 

The  mists  of  morn  still  linger*  d  in  the  vale, 
That  skirted  the  deep  base  of  Tabor's  height ; 
And  hurriedly,  through  the  dark  mazes  of  the  wood, 
He  fled  and  threw  aside  his  casque  and  spear 


384  THE  CHIEF  OF  HAZOR. 

And  mail  of  many  shekels,  for  his  strength 
Had  sunk  in  the  wild  battle,  where  he  wrought 
The  last  deeds  of  his  high  renown — and  now 
What  more  could  proven  arms  avail  the  Chief? 
His  glorious  name  was  lost — his  honour  soiled — 
His  proud  king's  curse  hung  o'er  him — and  he  heard 
Low  lurking  catamites,  around  the  throne, 
Whisper  disgrace  and  craven  treachery! 
Stung  by  the  thought,  he  broke  his  gory  sword, 
And  threw  the  blade  dishonoured  in  the  brook, 
But  kept  the  jewelled  hilt,  for  there  were  words 
And  names  of  glorious  import  graven  there ! 
He  paused  not  e'en  to  quaff  the  lucid  stream, 
Or  bathe  his  burning  forehead — but  kept  on — 
The  mighty,  though  the  fallen  Sisera ! 

The  warrior  came  to  Jael's  tent.  His  limbs 

Were  weary,  and  his  mighty  frame  grew  weak 

In  the  despairing  sickness  of  his  heart. 

With  a  fair  faithlessness,  the  subtle  wife 

Of  Heber  wooed  the  warrior  from  his  path, 

Who  nothing  craved  but  safety  and  a  cup 

Of  water  from  the  fountain  that  gush'd  forth 

Arnid  the  palm-grove,  in  whose  centre  stood 

The  Kenite's  tent — upon  the  border  land. 

And  he  lay  down  within  ;  the  beaded  dew 

Of  his  soul's  agony  hung  on  his  brow, 

The  arrow's  bloody  path  was  o'er  his  breast, 

That  heaved  as  it  would  burst  in  the  wild  war 

Of  master  passions — blasted  pride,  and  shame 

That  gasped  for  vengeance— and  revenge  that  quailed 

Before  disgrace — and  mocked  the  heart  it  seared. 

The  ^Etnaof  the  bosom  never  sleeps! 

The  fever  of  wild  enterprize — the  rush, 

The  roar  of  strife — the  speed  of  hot  pursuit 

Or  breathless  flight,  fill  the  proud  heart  with  power 

Even  when  the  glory  's  lost — but  when  the  pause 

Follows,  and  the  discerning  mind  beholds 

The  universal  ruin — the  wild  waste 

Of  all  its  honours — the  disgrace,  despair, 


THK  CHIEF  OF  HA/OK.  385 

And  desolation — it  doth  sink  to  sleep, 
The  oblivion  of  all  hope,  all  human  fear, 
The  only  blessedness  not  reft  away, 
Like  a  sweet  child  that  knoweth  not  a  care. 

Though  allied  to  the  invaders  of  their  rich 
And  pleasant  heritage — their  ancient  lot — 
Yet  Heber  long  had  flourished  'neath  the  smile 
Of  Hazor's  king — nor  wrong  had  he  sustained, 
Nor  injury  in  word  or  deed.     His  days 
Had  glided  on  in  peace  since  he  had  dwelt 
In  Harosheth  of  the  nations,  and  his  tent 
Had  found  due  honour  in  the  wildest  strife, 
Nor  had  the  deepest  want  unjustly  snatched 
An  ewe  lamb  from  his  flock. — But,  thro'  all  times 
The  open  heart,  the  ready  hand  hath  wrought 
Woe  to  the  giver,  and  confiding  truth 
Received  a  dark  reward  !  Like  a  fair  tree, 
The  evil  flourish  to  a  reverend  age — 
The  good  wear  out  their  strength  in  early  youth 
And  perish — and  their  memories  are  forgot! 
— It  is  a  sickening  task  to  look  abroad 
This  dark  and  evil  world  !  high  hearts  must  bleed 
Beneath  thu  torture — generous  feelings  turn 
To  anguish  'neath  the  infliction  of  the  vile, 
And  the  proud  power  of  thought  becomes  a  curse 
Amid  the  meshes  of  men's  villanies! 
Thus  it  hath  ever  been — and  Heaven's  great  name 
Must  bear  the  dark  reflection  of  man's  deeds, 
For  with  its  holiness  he  covereth  them. 
The  warrior  slumbered  deeply — and  the  folds 
Of  his  dark  mantle  quiver'd  as  the  breath 
Rushed  forth,  like  a  wild  torrent,  from  a  heart 
Weary  and  worn  and  tried  and  broken  now 
When  its  proud  pulse  throbbed  deepest.     The  orient  morn 
Was  beautiful  as  dreams  of  other  realms ; 
The  palm  was  full  of  music,  and  the  pine 
Sent  up  mysterious  melodies ;  the  hues 
Of  the  rich  lotus  and  bright  aloe  glowed, 
49 


386  THK  CHIEF  OF  HAZOR. 

While  from  the  soft  green  vale  the  mellow  air 
•Stole  through  the  tent  and  breathed  upon  the  brow 
Of  Sisera  as  he  slept ! 

Jael  drew  near 

With  feathery  footsteps,  like  a  guilty  thing, 
And  listened  as  she  bent  o'er  the  dark  Chief. 
Her  starting  eye  did  wander  in  wild  fear, 
A  demon  light  was  on  her  brow — her  lips 
Had  that  compression,  which  implies  resolve 
Of  something  terrible  ;  upon  her  cheek, 
'Mid  corselike  paleness,  sat  the  hectic  spot 
Of  the  assassin — from  the  accusing  heart 
A  fearful  witness!   and  her  coal-black  hair 
Fell  in  unequal  clusters  down  her  neck, 
That  had  a  swanlike  curve,  and,  as  she  bent, 
Dropped  o'er  her  panting  bosom. — She  came  near 
And  drew  aside  the  covering  from  the  face 
Of  the  lost  warrior  chief,  and  on  him  gazed. 

Dark  were  the  dreams  of  Sisera  !  His  brow, 

Scarred  by  the  casque  of  war,  and  harrowed  up 

With  many  burning  thoughts  and  sleepless  cares, 

Quivered  convulsively ;  his  sallow  cheek 

Was  flushed  by  the  last  fever  of  his  heart ; 

His  mighty  bosom  rose  and  fell,  like  seas 

When  the  great  spirit  of  the  tempest  reigns; 

His  hand,  still  gauntletted,  had  grasped  the  hilt 

Of  his  dishonour'd  sabre,  and  his  iips 

Mutter'd  strange  words  that  sounded  mournfully  ; 

(His  spirit  fought  the  battle  o'er  again, 

And  he  was  struggling  for  the  victory.) 

Dark  Sisera  arose  and  drave  his  sword 

Through  the  thick  tent — and  smiled ;  and  then  sunk  down 

As  if  it  nought  availed — and  sighed  like  one 

Whose  hopes  have  vanished — whose  despair  is  fixed, 

And  slumber'd  yet  more  deeply — though  the  shades 

Of  thought  passed  o'er  his  warworn  countenance 

Like  mountain  shadows  o'er  a  mirror'd  lake. 


Had  dunged  from  the  dart  beaetr  of  hs  joitffc. 

A  - : .     -  T  i  r"  t  - : .  r ~-  :  f :.   -      ' '  f   :     f  '         —  7      >f 
Woman '  kast  thoa  a  son  ?  There  's  one  afcr 
To  whom  thai  warrior's  fi&alsaiife  is  dhar! 

T  •  -  _ _.-._.._    .-        _  .        j^nj      a  _  -     i 

—   r .      _.        •     ?     i  i.7  .   .    .     .        7       .         I  —     - .         -  -  ~ 

H-5:  ir.rj  i  :-:r.  ::-  —  ;-    '—'_:     --     :5 

-A  ;  :--  ::  :r"f  i-     -    ::'-.-' L:r:    " 
(Tbon  Menifbl!  why  dost  thoa 

7--:  :"::-:••=     5f     .-  :-     f  - 

Liftmg  the  fatal  weapon,  wUe  her  ere 

- . .   . 

LT  :     -:•:        .     i  •  •    ;  :;  ~;  :     • .  5    ;  _  •  .    r. 

A »  rui«  n_,rry  i-i .  _  .          _   .  .. .  .     ,  _    .    . 

7     .    :  ^     ......    7      ...      .  _  _  . 


Tp,  like  a  goaded  Bon,  ^n^  the  dief! 

—  _  .    _     ... ._.     ..       _  i^;_  K^.  . 

r    _  _  _.          __•....._       »  ..         5    . .    ,w    , 

And  fen.  Eke  hm,  on  his  hosoro— stfi 
His  stre^th  was  eqoa!  IA  the  deadly  scrife 
Of  man  with  man.    Bol  when  the  hem  saw 

Wlthoot  a  word,  a  si^naL  or  a  look. 

He  teH:  his  giant  iml 

Rofled  on  the  earth— and  his  last 

\\-r-.  :::         -  ir.     -:-   7-  :.-f 


So  perahed  Haloes  pnde!    Oh. 
To  *e,  Aft  Mghtr  by  the  weak— ihe  great 
Bv  the  row  dastard*  OHM  to  five  a  sicoin* 
A  bOot,  a  loathing  aa  asatssin  host, 
A ^ik-stdrM  traitor!  Jad !  be  th j  wne 
A  damned  aoaad    a  word  that  blasts  the 
the  wiU  Arah  dodi  a  deed  ike  thine  ' 


THE   SPELL   OF   THE    G  LOAM  IN 


JT  is  a  sweet  eve  in  autumn !  The  blue  sky 
Of  that  blest  season  of  the  soul  soars  up 
In  its  pure  beauty,  while  the  winnowing  breeze, 
Free  from  the  charter  of  man's  privilege, 
Wanders  where'er  it  lisleth,  o'er  the  earth, 
Breathing  the  life  of  life  o'er  all  that  feels. 
From  the  vast  swell  of  sunset  glory  comes 
A  broad,  deep,  all-pervading  gush  of  light, 
A  blaze  of  immortality,  that  bears 
The  spirit  upward  as  on  seraph  wings, 
That  wave  in  the  dim  vision  of  our  dreams. 

O'er  yon  fair  Isle  of  Sycamores — o'er  all 

The  rugged  Laurel  mountains,  whose  dark  cliffs 

Pierce  the  deep  azure  and  throw  back  their  forms, 

Uncouth  and  vast,  against  the  sleeping  sky, 

Like  the  heroic  warriors  of  old  time 

Reposing  on  soft  bosoms; — o'er  the  woods, 

That  crown  the  toppling  peak  and  down  the  vale 

Sweep  like  a  long  array  of  visions  past ; 

O'er  the  broad  waters  of  Potomac,  now 

Slumbering  in  shadowy  cavities,  and  now 

Hurrying  o'er  arrowy  shelves,  like  a  proud  steed 

Appointed  to  the  battle; — o'er  the  earth, 

With  all  its  beauties,  and  the  bending  heaven, 

With  all  its  glories,  pours  the  godlike  sun 

His  sea  of  light,  and  the  ethereal  heart  mounts  up 

To  catch  the  inspiration  of  his  smile, 

As  a  sweet  child  climbs  to  its  father's  bosom 

To  meet  his  kiss,  whose  blood  through  every  vein 


THE    SPELL   OF  THE  GT.OAMIK. 

Rejoices,  and  whose  eye  reveals  his  soul. 
The  sunlight  fades ;  the  purple  clouds  assume 
The  changeful  violet — the  dusky  rose, 
The  gray  of  mountain  rocks;  and  now  the  breeze, 
Enters  their  twilight  tents  and  they  are  gone — 
Where  our  thoughts  vanish — where  our  hopes  become 
Phantoms  of  fear — where  evening  winds  are  born, 
And  sever'd  souls  depart ! — Sage !  canst  thou  tell  ? 

In  the  deep  hush  of  her  solemnities 

The  crescent  moon  comes  forth  mid  chequering  clouds, 

That  o'er  the  aspect  of  her  beauty  throw 

A  picturesque  romance — an  ideal  charm — 

A  visible  music  and  an  eloquence, 

Like  the  deep  pulses  of  the  bosom  heard 

In  forest-depths,  when  by  the  river  bank, 

And  wooded  hill  and  thymy  valley  sleep 

The  echo  fairies  and  the  water  nymphs. 

— Ye  ties  inscrutable,  that  link  our  hearts 

To  the  deep  solitudes  of  rock-barr'd  dells, 

And  hoary  hills  and  ever-flowing  streams 

And  valleys  breathing  quiet!  Let  me  catch 

The  spirit  of  your  silent  sanctity, 

And  learn  to  bear  the  burden  of  men's  talk 

With  an  invisible  though  haughty  scorn, 

That,  like  a  mirror,  shows  them  what  they  are.— 

Through  sombre  hanging  woods,  on  either  bank, 

O'er  tiny  waterfalls,  on  right  and  left, 

Down  roars  a  mighty  river,  whose  deep  voice 

Ascends  in  one  eternal  hymn  of  praise. 

— Mysterious  Life  !   whose  evidence  is  Power, 

Or  in  the  voice  that  uttereth  oracles, 

Or  in  the  solemn  sound  that  hath  no  words, 

Thou  dost  pervade  all  Nature,  the  deep  sen. 

The  craggy  mountain  and  the  heart  of  man ; 

And  art  a  glory — whether,  from  thy  touch, 

The  insect's  little  wings  of  pictured  hues 

Float  on  the  air,  or   whether,  at  thy  voice, 

The  fearless  eagle's  sun-afTVonting  eye 

Marks  out  his  prey;  — alike  thy  power  is  felt 


390  THE  SPELL  OF  THE  GLOAMIN. 

When  the  soft  flame  sheds  blessings  round  the  hearth, 

And  when  the  Volcan  pillars  midnight  skies 

Through  skirting  woods  and  sundered  rocks  sublime 
The  waters  hold  their  turbulent  career 
Mid  broken  crags  and  promontories  high 
O'erarching,  since  that  hour  of  miracle, 
When  the  vast  Sea  of  their  imprisoned  waves, 
Repellant  at  their  bondage,  in  their  strength 
Rose  up,  and  swept  the  mountain  from  its  throne, 
And  to  the  ocean  in  their  might  went  down, 
Like  Death  to  Armageddon's  war  of  Doom. 
How  beautiful  the  moonlight  (while  we  stand 
On  MONTICELLO'S  ROCK)  upon  thy  stream 
Bubbling  in  eddies,  or  in  azure  sleep, 
Lifting  its  solemn  music,  or  beside 
The  lofty  bank  reposing,  while  the  trees 
Scatter  their  sear  leaves  on  its  calm  expanse ! 
How  sweet  to  catch  the  hum  of  voices  down 
The  peopled  street — the  mirth  of  happy  hearts — 
The  blessed  music  of  our  daily  life, 
While  the  proud  anthem  of  the  waters  swells 
Upon  the  evening  breeze,  and  forests  join 
The  glorious  hymn  with  melodies  of  leaves  ! 

JT  is  such  a  night  as  gentle  hearts  desire; 
'T  is  like  the  mellow  courtesies  of  life, 
A  silent  soother;  and  the  low  faint  breeze 
Steals  through  the  firwood  and  the  piny  copse 
With  those  deep,  tender,  solemn  whisperings, 
That  stir  the  heart  like  music.     From  the  sky 
The  stars  look  down  with  cheerly  modest  eyes, 
That  beam  the  truest  oracles  of  joys 
To  gladden  after  years,  so  lovely  now 
That  the  worn  heart  no  longer  feels  its  woes, 
Or  discontent  or  dark-browed  melancholy. 

Those  miscreations  and  repugnancies, 
Those  cold  repellings  of  unuttered  scorn, 
Those  ingenuities  of  suffering, 
That  oft,  in  the  thronged  world,  become  a  part 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  GLOAMIX.  391 

And  portion  of  our  being,  enter  not 

The  mansions  of  the  spirit,  when  it  seeks 

The  fountain-springs  of  life  and  drinketh  there 

The  waters  of  its  purity,  amid 

The  still  and  hallowed  sabbath  of  the  heart. 

Here  let  me  linger,  like  a  pilgrim  far, 

From  all  he  loves,  and  hold  the  feast  of  thought, 

While  jarring  passions,  like  the  desert  winds, 

Pass  in  the  distance  !  Let  my  heart  resume 

The  earlier  kindness  of  its  generous  pulse, 

And,  stern  to  its  own  errings,  render  up 

The  prayer  of  charity  for  all  that  breathe  ! 

Here  let  me  think  how  far  from  Wisdom's  path 

And  Truth's  rnost  pleasant  places  I  have  roamed, 

And,  with  a  heart  of  sorrow,  look  abroad 

The  world  that  sins  when  sin  brings  misery, 

And  peril,  and  a  bitter  bondage  here, 

And  unacquainted  woe  in  other  worlds. 

There  is  a  time  when  sorrow  on  the  soul 

Hangs  like  the  mortcloth  on  the  shrouded  Dead, 

Deepening  the  darkness  of  death's  mysteries; 

When  the  barb  rankles  in  the  quickest  depths 

Of  the  dark  bosom,  and  strange  Shapes  come  forth 

From  Memory's  pictured  chamber  to  distort 

And  magnify  our  misery!  But  here 

The  pale  serenities  of  floating  stars, 

The  slumber  of  the  solitary  woods, 

And  the  low  gurgling  gush  of  waters  blue 

Lift  the  glad  heart  into  the  realms  of  peace. 


TO  THE   OWL. 


DARK  Bird  of  the  Night, 

That  shunnelh  the  light, 
Whither  away  on  thy  wandering  flight  ? 

"  From  the  blood  of  the  slain, 

"  And  the  gaze  of  the  Dead, 

"  From  the  long  lone  plain 

"Where  the  horseman  bled, 
"  I  hurry,  I  hurry  and  I  come  not  again!" 

Lone  lover  of  gloom, 

Whose  lair  is  the  tomb. 
Why  glarest  thou  o'er  yon  marsh  of  broom? 

"The  darkness  is  deep  as  death, 

"  But  I  see  a  dead  man  there, 

••  And  I  heard  his  throttled  breath, 

"  And  the  gasp  of  his  despair, 
••  When  he  perished  alone  on  the  dismal  heath." 

Bird  of  the  Night!  how  did  he  die? 
••With  a  cloven  brow  and  a  bloodshot  eye, 
•4  A  clench  of  the  hand  and  a  gurgling  ei  \  . 

•*  Then  a  form  appeared  and  took 

"  The  murdered  in  his  embrace, 

"  And  amid  the  forest  brook 

"  I  heard  a  plunge — I  saw  a  face — 
"  Oh!  never  had  living  man  such  look  !" 

Miserere,  Dominc ! 


TO  THE  OWL.  393 

In  his  home  of  peace  dear  eyes 

Yearned  for  their  earthly  paradise, 
While  the  shedder  of  guiltless    blood  had  power; 

But  the  bandit — where  is  he? 

"The  outcast  wandereth  on, 

"And  he  skulks  behind  each  tree, 

"For  the  fear  of  the  slaughter  done — 
"  While  the  Gold— lo!  it  lies  by  the  side  of  Thee!" 

Miserere,  Domine! 

Watcher  of  solemn  woods, 

That  lov'st  the  roar  of  floods 
When  they  plunge  through  the  midnight  solitudes, 

Flap  not  thy  wings,  but  stay  ! 

"To  snuff  the  warm  blood  of  men? 

"  To  gaze  on  the  dead  ?  away  ! 

"  In  the  depth  of  the  hemlock  glen 
"Man  cometh  not,  nor  the  sunlight  of  day/' 

Miserere,  Domine ! 

From  the  lightning  scathed  tree, 

While  his  wings  winnowed  free, 
The  Bird  hooted  thrice  and  again  at  me ; 

Then  through  the  rolling  gloom 

He  took  his  darkened  flight, 

Untainted  by  the  doom 

Of  that  most  fearful  night, 
When  the  horseman  slept  without  bed  or  tomb ! 

Miserere,  Domine  I 
50 


THE  WANE  OF  THE  YEAR. 


Tu  poverari  si  come  sa  ai  sale 

Lo  pane  altrui,  et  quanto  e  duro  colle 

Lo  seeendere  a  salir  pur  le  altrui  scale. 

DANTE.  PARADIS,  CANT.  16. 


THERE  's  beauty  in  the  autumnal  sky, 
And  mellow  sweetness  in  the  air, 
But  it  hath  sadness  in  my  eye, 
And  breathes  of  sorrow  and  despair  ; 
Its  softness  suits  not  settled  woe, 
Its  richness  mocks  my  poverty, 
And  sunny  day's  ethereal  glow 
Laughs  o'er  my  dark  soul's  misery. 

The  requiem  song  of  sighing  gale 
With  the  dead  forest  foliage  playing ; 
The  chilling  night  wind's  saddening  wail 
O'er  rock-browed  hill  and  wild  heath  straying  ; 
The  mournful  sound  of  lapsing  flood 
Lamenting  desert  mead  and  shore, 
Rather  beseem  his  solitude 
Who  weeps  for  all  he  did  adore. 

I  long  have  been  a  wanderer,  fated 
Lifes  ills  and  wrongs  and  woes  to  bear, 
With  all  the  world  can  offer  sated, 
And  borne  to  earth  by  deep  despair  ! 
And  I  have  been  betrayed,  oppressed, 
Belied  and  mocked  in  guise  so  foul, 
That  there  dwells  not  within  my  breast 
A  hope,  or  purpose  in  my  soul. 


THE  WANE  OF  THE   YEAR.  395 

Though  kindred  bosoms  beat  with  mine, 
Yet  I  am  one  the  world  loves  not ; 
No  hopes  around  my  being  twine, 
No  glorious  majesty  of  lot ; 
Oh  !  had  I  perished  when  a  child, 
Ere  high  aspirings  burned  to  heaven, 
Devotions  blasted,  pleasures  foiled, 
And  passions  ne'er  my  heart  had  riven ! 

I  have  no  friend  on  this  cold  earth, 

No  cheerful  prospect  charms  my  eye, 

Despair  watched  o'er  my  unwished  birth. 

And  woe  wept  o'er  the  agony; 

My  childhood  groaned  'neath  wrong  and  ill, 

And  I  grew  sad  when  others  smiled, 

And  ever  on  joy's  vital  thrill 

Came  sorrows  deep  and  miseries  wild. 

My  youth  has  been  a  scene  of  woe, 
And  wandering  and  reproach,  and  all 
That  loved  me  in  death's  overthrow 
Have  passed  away  beyond  recall  ; 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  bear 
The  burden  of  my  burning  woes, 
And,  blended  with  my  heart's  despair, 
The  tauntings  of  unfeeling  foes. 

. 

Pale  daughter  of  the  dying  year  ! 
I  ever  loved  thy  scenes  of  death, 
Thy  foliage  dropping  red  and  sere, 
Thy  pensive  look  and  nipping  breath; 
For  thou  wert  like  thy  votary  son, 
Fading  and  dying  day  by  day, 
And  smiling  that  thy  task  was  done 
So  soon,  and  life  had  passed  away. 

When,  oh,  I  trace  the  path  of  years, 
And  count  the  pangs  my  heart  hath  borne, 
And  number  o'er  my  bosom's  tears, 
And  sighs  and  groans  of  grief  forlorn, 


396  THE   WANE  OF  THE   YEAR. 

And  think  of  all  the  dead  behind, 
And  what  they  were  in  life  to  me, 
I  feel  a  glory  of  the  mind 
In  holding  converse  thus  with  thee. 

Oh,  I  would  change  my  being  high 
Gladly  a  withered  leaf  to  be, 
And  float  on  zephyr's  pinions  by, 
A  thing  unknowing  misery! 
And  when  the  snows  of  winter  fell, 
I  should  not  feel  their  icy  blight, 
But  slumber  in  the  mountain  dell 
Sweetly  the  livelong  northern  night. 

I  ne'er  could  cringe  and  crouch  to  guile, 
Nor  thoughts  repress  that  would  arise, 
Nor  visor  with  a  villain  smile 
Avenging  hatred's  demon  lies; 
I  ne'er  could  herd  with  fashion's  throng, 
And  whirl  away  the  unmeaning  hours, 
Nor  link  with  base  nefarious  wrong 
My  spirit's  unpolluted  powers. 

And  so  my  mortal  life  hath  passed 
In  loneliness  and  grief  and  woe, 
And  I  have  trod  a  burning  waste 
With  measured  step,  lone,  solemn,  slow, 
And  seen  the  viper  brood  of  hate 
And  baseness  crawl  around  my  way, 
And  felt  my  being  desolate, 
A  heritage  of  grief  foraye ! 

Oh,  dying  Autumn!  would  with  thee 
I  could  lie  down  and  sleep  fore'er  ; 
Thou  wouldst  not  waken  misery, 
In  the  soft  springtime  of  the  year, 
By  breaking  his  undreaming  sleep 
Who  never  loved  its  brilliant  flowers, 
But  often  sighed — he  could  not  weep — 
O'er  sorrow's  lone  and  lingering  hours. 


THE  WANE  OF  THE  YEAR.  397 

Cold  is  the  hand  that  once  was  pressed 
In  passioned  rapture  to  my  heart, 
And  colder  yet  the  guiltless  breast 
That  felt  in  all  my  woes  a  part: 
Wild  wails  the  wind  o'er  many  a  tomb 
Which  holds  full  many  a  dear  one  bound, 
And  in  creation's  starless  gloom 
I  hear  a  lone,  deep,  dirgelike  sound. 

'T  is  nothing,  Autumn  !  but  thy  breeze 
Amid  the  leafless  forest  flying, 
But  yet  it  comes  through  bending  trees 
Like  the  last  groan  of  nature  dying; 
And  seems,  as  low  the  sun  sinks  down, 
Like  a  sweet  voice  I  loved  to*  hear, 
Though  altered  now  its  thrilling  tone 
To  suit  the  melancholy  year. 

In  childhood's  hours  left  fatherless, 
Reflective,  feeling,  sad  and  wild, 
Unblessing,  with  but  one  to  bless 
A  friendless,  visionary  child, 
I  roved  abroad  'mid  hills  and  woods, 
And  clomb  the  cliff*  and  pluck'd  the  flower 
That  flourished  there,  nnd  skimm'd  the  floods 
And  dared  worst  danger's  utmost  power. 

I  little  thought,  at  that  sweet  time, 
My  heart  would  ache  'mid  scenes  like  these, 
When  the  soul  soars,  on  wings  sublime, 
Among  the  blue  sky's  deities; 
But,  ah,  long  time  has  passed  away 
Since  I  knew  not  the  world's  deep  woes, 
And  pleasures  past  around  me  play, 
Like  spectres  round  the  dead's  repose. 

Since  thou,  pale  widow  of  the  year  ! 
Wert  here  before,  strange  deeds  have  been; 
Full  many  a  heart  hath  quaked  with  fear, 
And  many  a  lovely,  joyous  scene 


398  FAILEAS    MORE. 

Hath  changed  to  desolation  wild  ; 
Eyes,  that  once  shone  with  pleasure's  light, 
Have  wept  like  those  of  little  child, 
O'er  rosy  being's  last  cold  blight. 

And  many  a  proud  and  lordly  one 
Hath  knelt  beside  the  robbing  tomb, 
And  highborn  things  to  dust  have  gone 
With  creatures  nursed  in  lowly  gloom. 
All — all,  O  nature  !  die  with  thee, 
The  high,  the  low,  the  sad,  the  gay, 
And  it  were  joy,  in  sooth,  to  me, 
If  I  could  die  like  yon  sweet  day. 


FATLEAS  MORE.* 

"  A  dark  gigantic  Shade  is  seen  stalking  across  the  loch  in  the  evening,  which 
vanishes  at  a  certain  headland,  and  from  that  place  the  next  morning,  between  day 
break  and  sunrise,  a  whole  troop  of  shadows  arise  and  with  Mac  Torcil  Dhu  at 
their  head,  walk  in  procession  to  the  Standing  Stones  and  hide  themselves  again  in 
their  graves."  HOGG'S  BASIL  LEE. 

SHADES  of  the  Dead  !  what  necromantic  power 
Breaks  thus  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb? 
Dwells  there  mysterious  rnagic  in  the  hour 
Of  birth  or  death  to  summon  from  the  gloom 
Of  man's  last  resting-place  the  parted  soul? 
Can  earthly  joy  or  sorrowing  abide 
Beneath  the  veil  of  death — or  thought  unroll 
The  record  of  past  passion,  love  and  pride  ? 

'T  is  vain  to  question — ye  may  not  reply ; 

Death  seals  the  lips  of  his  dim  shadowy  forms — 

Thought  cannot  pierce  his  awful  mystery, 

And  the  soul  shrinks  from  converse  with  the  worms ; 

Shrouded  and  coffined — buried  in  the  dust — 

Wrapt  in  undreaming  sleep  forever  there — 

'T  is  nothing  to  the  penitent  who  trust 

Their  GOD — but  where 's  the  spirit?  Oh,  that  where! 

*J.  E.— The  Great  Shadow. 


FAILKAS    MORE.  399 

Come  ye,  dread  Shadows!  to  forewarn  the  advance 
Of  pestilence  or  famine,  war  and  death? 
Weak  hearts  catch  terror  from  your  amenance, 
And  fear  hangs  quivering  on  their  stifled  breath. 
What  mystic  lore  would  ye  to  man  impart  ? 
What  secrets  to  his  doubting  soul  convey  ? 
Life's  vital  flood  is  curdling  round  his  heart — 
Oh,  quick  reveal  your  message  and  away ! 

Why  should  the  living  seek  to  know  what,  known, 
Would  leave  them  nought  of  being  save  their  breath? 
How  can  the  dead  for  past  misdeeds  atone 
By  fearful  shadowings  of  approaching  death  ? 
Through  life  we  hear  the  echo  of  that  tread, 
Each  hour  distincter  growing,  which  at  last, 
We  know  not  when,  will  crush  and  leave  us  dead, 
And  still  sound  onward  like  the  sweeping  blast. 

What  are  ye,  Spectral  Shades?  the  hue  of  guilt 
No  mortal  eye  on  your  wan  brows  may  trace, 
And  yet,  perchance,  blood  dyed  your  sabre's  hilt, 
Drained  from  the  veins  of  some  fraternal  race ; 
Or  persecution  waited  on  your  beck 
To  seethe  the  human  heart  in  boiling  gore  ; 
To  bow  the  martyr's  and  the  patriot's  neck, 
And  rend  away  what  earth  could  not  restore. 

The  sepulchre  is  no  abode  of  rest 

For  them  who  lave  their  souls  in  seas  of  blood, 

Or  stamp  despair  on  virtue's  virgin  breast  ; 

They  roam  forever  by  oblivion's  flood 

Living  to  agony,  yet  dead  to  hope, 

And  wander  o'er  the  ruins  they  have  made, 

To  wail  where  erst  they  shouted  in  their  scope 

Of  power  arnid  the  mighty  cavalcade. 

And  ye,  perchance,  are  of  the  accursed  crew, 
Whom  penitence,  vouchsafed  to  all  beside, 
Can  ne'er  avail ;  affliction's  healing  dew, 
Tears  flowing  from  the  wellspring  of  lost  pride, 


400  FA1LEAS    MORE, 

Will  never  on  your  withering  hearts  descend ; 
Enough  of  life  to  see  and  feel  your  death, 
Mocking  the  agony  that  cannot  end, 
Is  all  that's  left — pale  forms  without  a  breath. 

The  scenes  of  your  wild  deeds  and  buried  crimes 
Alone  are  open  to  your  shadowy  tread ; 
Your  course  is  bounded  by  forbidden  times 
To  where  the  victims  of  your  vengeance  bled ; 
At  the  dim  twilight  hour  of  morn  or  eve 
Alone  can  ye  appear,  and  much  the  scene 
Mysterious  lends  its  aidance  to  deceive 
The  eye,  that  hangs  upon  your  fearful  mien. 

Not  oft  doth  he,  the  great  Omniscient  give 
Warning  to  mortals  when  their  course  shall  cease ; 
Save  on  his  doubts  and  fears  man  could  not  live, 
Nor  rest  his  sad  and  weary  soul  in  peace ; — 
If  mighty  terror  doth  chain  down  weak  minds 
When  the  dead  walk  again  the  conscious  earth, 
Let  all  the  omen  be  the  fear  that  binds 
The  heart  to  heaven,  and  calls  high  virtue  forth ! 

The  deep,  the  fervent  longing  of  the  mind — 
The  eternal  aspiration  of  the  soul 
Seeks  things  unreal  as  the  summer  wind, 
Which  all  can  hear,  but  none  on  earth  control  ; 
Oft  doth  the  vivid  fancy  paint  the  form 
That  glides  around  us  with  prophetic  eye, 
Whose  awful  voice  is  heard  amid  the  storm 
When  spirits  throng  the  chambers  of  the  sky. 

Yet  shapes  appear  and  shadows  float  along 

Which  have  no  mortal  moulding,  hue  or  birth, 

And  wild  romance  and  legendary  song 

Tell  of  dread  spectres  doomed  to  roam  the  earth, 

Eternal  heirs  of  uncommuning  woe! 

And  well  may  man  in  such  wild  tales  discern 

How  far  extends  the  chain  of  guilt  below ! — 

How  long  remorse  within  the  heart  doth  burn  ! 


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